Omega of Black
by Chanse Lowell
Summary: 2024; aftermath of devastation from bombs. A prophecy looms; a man hides his identity. He's lucky enough to find his protector—a woman awoken from the ashes, but her memory's vanished. Not only is she on the run, she can't stand him. The real problem-the hoards want their Messiah, and will stop at nothing to get him. Will she help him, or abandon him for her own survival? AH BxE
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Tin Box**

_(?POV – date unknown)_

"_Ahhhhhh!" _I scream at the top of my lungs.

I try to get my bearings, but suddenly my shrieks of terror are muffled.

_White._

Blinding white everywhere.

Can't breathe.

Can't move.

Head is on fire and throbbing like hell.

I'm immobilized. Someone very large is on top of me, holding me in place.

I squirm and kick my legs to no avail.

I don't know what's happening, so I stop fighting in hopes that whoever is keeping me down will let go if I give up the fight.

Why was I screaming?

I close my eyes and try to remember what it was that had me in a state of panic . . .

_I'm in a container, and all of the walls are metal. It feels like being in a square tuna can. There is dirt all around me, and suddenly the walls are closing in. I can't breathe; there's a shrill ringing in my ears. I feel like I'm on fire. My whole body burns._

_As I raise my hands to cover my ears, there's a searing pain that radiates from the crown of my skull straight down my spine. I curl in on myself as I gasp for air and fight to breathe . . . until something sharp rips into my side, and warm gushing fluid, oozes down my right side. _

That is when I started screaming . . .

The white strangling consuming monster lessens, and I breathe easier.

Whoever's on top of me slowly removes themself, and a large, masculine hand strokes down my leg; no doubt to calm me. It has the opposite effect.

When I figure out what's going on, this man's going to get a bullet in the brain. And I won't stop to ask his name.

My jaw tenses.

"Keep quiet," they hiss at me. "They're right outside, and they'll hear you."

I nod my head; my stomach twists.

Suddenly I'm free, and my eyes sting as they try to adjust to the large volumes of light in the room.

I squint, and my head throbs over the quick adjustment.

A very tall man looms over me. He's got the build of a linebacker. He's probably six-foot-three and weighs about two-hundred twenty; all muscle. He has salt and pepper hair, but other than the sprinklings of gray, he looks very young. There're no lines around his eyes, and he's clean shaven. He's wearing a Hawaiian print button up shirt with some cargo shorts and running shoes.

When I look closely at his odd eye color, I wonder if they're contacts. It's a disturbing sea green; almost chartreuse. It doesn't go well with his olive complexion and dark hair.

I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. My hands clench into fists.

I glance around the room. He was suffocating me with a pillow; I glare at him and ignore the blinding pain in my head. I'm cuffed to a shelf behind me, and lying on a mat on the floor. My legs are wrapped together by two bungee cords. It's excessive, and the job's sloppy. I could've done it much better. I suck my bottom lip in as I study the way the cords are twisted about, and how best to get free of them.

My feet are bare. I can easily slip my feet out when his back is turned.

The man starts pacing the room and grabbing at his chin like he's trying to work out some difficult puzzling problem.

"I'm gonna check and see if they're gone. Keep quiet so they don't figure out we're here," he says in a hushed tone.

I nod again. My breath hitches. He's _leaving_ . . .

There're shelves lining the room, no windows, and metal hooks are fastened into the wall by the door with various backpacks hanging from them. One of them has a gun and a clip of ammunition in a mesh pocket.

I smile.

There is also a pair of classic, plain black Mary Jane shoes in the corner.

I watch him as he turns to leave and make sure to keep absolutely still as he walks up the stairs. I'm in some basement of sorts. The floor's concrete, and it's very cool down here.

The moment he climbs the stairs and shuts the door, I release a breath and the tension in my back dissipates.

My tongue pokes out as I pick the lock and snort at his idiocy. What kind of armature puts his captor's arms above their head? Behind the back. Always behind he back . . . Idiot.

It's much easier this way for me. Thank you, big guy.

I tip my head back and hock a loogie at my hands then smear it around to lubricate it along with my wrists. Without much problem at all, I'm able to pull my hands out.

I chuckle low in my belly when they slip out. Adrenaline heats my chest and spreads through my shoulders.

I rip the bungee cords off and grab the keys on the shelf I was secured to. Fuck, this is my day.

There're handcuffs too. I shove them both in my jeans pocket; wrap the two bungees through the belt loops in back.

I run over to the shoes and slip them on. Blood rushes through my ears like howling wind, making it difficult to hear if he returns, so I shallow my breathing, to keep that as quiet as possible. The echoes in my head are worse than this tin room.

The shoes're a little big on me, but I ignore it. I'll need them if I'm going to escape successfully. Who knows what conditions are like past this room? There might be all sorts of sharp shit on the ground I could stab the soles of my feet with. Yeah, big shoes are better than nothing.

I grab the backpack with the gun, remove the weapon, load it, and then tuck it into the back of my jeans. This is all so familiar, I do it mindlessly. I pull the backpack on and tighten the straps a little so it's not so loose. It's not overly- heavy but the thing is obviously packed pretty full.

I creep up the stairs; the door's unlocked. My stomach drops.

Is this a trap? Did he do this on purpose? The shoddy restraining? The keys, handcuffs, backpack and now unsecured door?

Shit! I pull the gun out, and have it ready at my side. My mouth goes dry.

As I glance back over my shoulder one more time, I realize this is a storage room I was being held in.

There are rows and rows of canned foods, emergency first aid supplies, toiletries, and rack after racks of guns and ammo.

I open the door silently and slip out. I'm in a sterile nondescript house.

A chill runs down the back of my neck and my arms break out in goose bumps.

How does anybody live in a place like this, lacking a soul? It almost feels like an institution, but I get the feeling I've been here before.

Someone lives here . . . I know it.

Voices whisper and carry from a room down the hall. One of them is feminine and very high pitched, sounding fairly young.

I quicken my pace as I look for an escape from this place. He said there were some people outside.

Possible allies for me? Are they trying to save me? Is that why he's so worried about it?

My stomach flips and that adrenaline in my chest and shoulders has spread to my lower half.

A heat pumps through my legs, and I push myself as fast as I can go while keeping quiet.

Allies? _Me_?

_Thump, thump, thump. _My heart races.

I break out in a sweat.

I don't have friends. It's me. Nobody else. I travel alone, and I like it that way.

My heels dig in as I round a corner and crouch low in case someone's there, with my gun at the ready.

The room's empty.

I blink hard and roll my shoulders back while stretching my neck side to side. A few tight breaths, and I pad along the edge of the room.

I maneuver the back door open after getting all of the locks off. All _six_ of them.

_Someone's paranoid!_

I roll my eyes. If somebody wants to get in . . . they'll do it. There's no such thing as safety. The fact _I_ got caught, is proof of it. I know better than that.

The moment I step into the backyard and close the door, I'm surrounded by lush greenery, but it's stifling hot, like a sauna. It's almost hard to breathe, there's so much moisture in the air.

I swipe at my brow, immediately misted with sweat.

I duck down into bushes right next to the door. There are thorns all over the bushes. Blackberries. There's no fruit on them, though. They've been burned up to a crisp.

I manage to crawl behind them until I'm sure I'm completely camouflaged.

This all seems very familiar; instinctively I know where everything is.

A sick, crawling feel marches over the top of my gut, and I'm queasy. The sweat on my palms makes it more difficult to my gun, so I wipe one palm on my jeans, then switch hands and do the same with the other.

On the south end of the large yard, there's a pen with a dozen chickens in it. Up against the side of the house, a dozen fifty-five gallon green drums full of water. All of them air tight and with a spigot a few inches up from the bottom. There's a pump inside the shed next to it to remove the last few gallons when they're drained down to the bottom of the barrels.

How do I know all of this? Shit. I have no idea.

My head tips back to get away from the soaked ring on my collar from all this perspiration. It's slimy and makes my skin recoil from contact.

My vision blurs, so I drop my head down for a moment and swallow.

Water. I need water.

If I could get some, it wouldn't be so fucking difficult to concentrate.

The harder I try to recall how I have all this knowledge, the more my head aches. I stop trying to get an answer from myself; it's too damn exhausting.

Instead, my eyes dart around the yard to find a means of escape.

There's a garden on the west side of the yard with fresh veggies and herbs; it gets morning sun. Right now it's flourishing with summer squash and melons. A few of the sunflowers have birds munching on them. There's a trellis leaning up against the block wall at an angle so the fruit can be easily picked from behind.

How many fruit trees are there in this yard? It's not that big a space, but ever inch seems to be utilized for food, and the irrigation water brings trace nutrients to the plant life, but it's no good for drinking.

I lick my parched lips, but there's not much satisfaction when it feels like sandpaper scraping across my skin.

Shit! I need water now!

My left leg twitches, begging me to get up and run.

But if I leave, I may not survive.

_Yeah, how're ya gonna survive when that shit-head inside comes after you?_

Just as I scoot forward, ready to take off running and then scale the wall, I hear a slight rustling across the yard. And it's definitely not an animal like a cat or a dog. Although, I _do_ know there is a dog on this property.

It's an odd sense of déjà vu. I know this place—all of it. I can't shake this feeling of recognition.

I fist the gun, and my nerves jump when I hear that rustling sound again. My head jerks in that direction.

There's a man lurking near the chicken pen, trying to figure out a way inside it.

He freezes when he realizes somebody's eyes are on him. A woman with a gun, ready to shoot anything breathing.

I take aim, and then his scent hits me.

"Rrrrrrrggghhhh!" I growl in the pit of my stomach and clench my teeth together.

_Don't kill him . . ._

His scent is everywhere out here, and it makes my chest burn.

Fuck! What is that smell? Why do I know it?

He smells incredible. I stop breathing, but that's not the point.

The point of not breathing isn't so I won't smell him. It's so I can launch myself out of here, and add fuel to my muscles, since I'm dehydrated and weak.

_One, two, three!_

I catapult my way out of the bushes, slicing up my arms with the thorns on the way out, but I cringe, keep my head down and the wall's in sight.

I tuck the gun in my waistband as I race for the block wall.

I can't see him, but I know he's watching me, and he's the enemy until proven otherwise.

"Who's there?" he whispers as he freezes.

I glance over my shoulder than fling myself at the wall.

He puts his hands up in the air in supplication like he thinks I'll target him and shoot. I may decide to do that if he comes after me, but first I gotta get away from the douche in that house, since I know without a doubt he wants me dead.

Before I'm all the way over, I hear a commotion inside.

_Awww shit! They've figured out I'm gone._

I skin my right knee as I haul myself up and over.

My head is screaming out in horrific pain when I land with a thud and crouch down. After sucking a gulp of air, I rocket forward.

The shoes flop at my heels with each step, making enough noise I cringe and my sense of hearing heightens.

Some fucker's gonna hear you. Shut your feet up!

I grunt.

A dull throb I was able to ignore before has now exploded and my joints almost buckle on me, making me stumble a little.

As I move faster, it gets worse.

"Huuuuuhhh, huuuuuhhh, huuuuuuh!" My arms swing, and I huff in a rhythm, hoping my body will figure out it better cooperate or I'm dead.

_Criiiiisssshhhhh!_

My thighs burn and my shoulders ache.

Someone's after me—right behind, cornering along with me as I dash away like a slick rabbit.

I inhale deep, and my arms prickle.

It's him—the man from the yard. I can smell him, feel it bind with my blood.

Even if I that scent wasn't there, I'd still know it was him since he's lighter than the muscled-up man inside that fortress. He's taller too, and would move more like a cheetah, rather than a rampaging bear.

_Move it! He's catching up to you!_

I smirk. Because he's out of luck—I know this area. At least I feel like I do . . .

The pain in the back of my skull intensifies, and the brightness of the sun makes it worse. I squint, and instead of squinting, I tuck my chin down toward my chest. It'll lessen my headache a touch, and that might be all I need to keep going before my body collapses on me.

_Head for the orchard. It's half a block away; full of citrus trees. Lose him there._

My arms and legs pump faster, and my breaths come quicker.

The shoes on my feet slip around worse; slowing me down and making my stomach slip a knot around my lungs as they mash together.

My neck prickles, begging me to glance behind to see how close he is, but I don't need to.

He's right there. With his long arms? Hell, I'm lucky he hasn't lunged at me and tackled me to the ground.

I lean my weight forward, so if he does decide to do that, he'll have to lean forward further.

Suddenly, I make a hard right, and am flooded with a newfound boost of adrenaline.

The trees! I see them!

I'm right at the edge.

He's not even breathing hard, but, God, I'm about ready to lose a lung along with my faulty foot-gear.

It doesn't matter. Greenery surrounds me. The trees are my friends.

I can lose him no problem; fade away, and catch my breath.

Not to mention, remove this shirt pasted to my neck.

I start taking on a random pattern, but I'm not shaking him.

_Goddammit! You better grow wings, then, you stupid bitch! Or you're dead!_

My only choice is to scramble up the branches, take the high ground and shoot this fucker in the head!

The minute I'm grappling with branches and lugging myself up, a firm grasp snakes around my ankle and it's pulling me back down.

I kick my assailant in the face hard.

"Shit! Ow! Stop doing that!" he hisses.

"Nnnnfffff!" I huff and kick again.

"Calm down! I need your help!" he says quietly.

_Why is he whispering? _I turn in the tree to stare at him, and the gun's in my hand, aimed at his forehead.

"They're after me," he says, his eyes pleading, "and I can't take them all on by myself. Please, help me!"

I grin and cock my piece.

The greenest, most piercing eyes I've ever seen, melt right into my core. I swallow, but nothing goes down. In fact, bile comes up.

_You can't hurt him!_

My hands shake, but I keep the gun trained on him.

Stupid fake contacts. Stupid asshole, smelling like that, and fuck, what is wrong with me? Why is he still alive?

_Shoot him!_

_No! You'll die if he's gone!_

Why? What the hell? I roll my left shoulder and swipe edge of my chin, dripping with sweat.

He blinks, and I swear those goddamn eyes burn straight into my soul.

What's with him? Why's he wearing contacts that color?

It's not as bad as the dude inside the house I left, but still . . .

That color can't be natural.

I give a loud, hearty sardonic laugh. He's mine now! I'm done running.

I don't care if my gut says to keep him around. No more games. I'm pulling the trigger . . .

My finger slowly inches down, and I exhale.

"It's you!" he gasps and lets go of my leg.

_What the fuck?_

**A/N:**

**This is one of my stories I pulled down off my other fan fiction account that was completed. It's one of them I wasn't keen on my RL family/friends discovering. It's controversial enough without their eyes judging me on it.**

**BTW, if this is your first time reading this story, I should warn you—it's very different from my other stories (as if any of them are similar to one another! *snorts*). If you don't like a steely, mean Bella, then this story isn't for you. She's got a tough skin in this story but she softens over time, and I do promise HEA.**

**For those of you who've read it before, I've made quite a few changes, fixed errors, and hope you enjoy this updated version since my writing's improved drastically since I wrote this over a year and a half ago and have since published.**

**To those of you brave enough to read this sci-fi, adventure, I thank you. And yes, there will be kinky stuff involved, because I like getting dirty. I will read each and every review you write, but can't guarantee how many I'll be able to answer. You'll have a better time getting a response if you contact me on facebook or on Twitter, but I do ask you don't mention this story by name in a public forum since I'm trying to keep my family/friends oblivious to it. A PM works nicely. I'm great with email as well. Check my profile for all my links, and I friend pretty much everybody on every forum, so don't be shy.**

**Thanks to the lovely Soapy Mayhem for making this amazing banner. There's actually one with both Bella and Edward on it with the title of the story in it (I've got it posted if you wanna see on it on my facebook group, World of Play: Scarlett's Stories, please join us!). But I love having only Edward in it. There's a power to the simplicity. I was so amazed by this banner, I had it on my iPod for months and stared at it quite frequently. I'm still amazed she was able to meet my specifications. She's that mind-blowing at her manips.**

**It's about to get ugly so hold on to your hats or bras or whatever it is you clutch in time of need . . . **

**Chanse**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Running**

"We have to go, quick! They won't take long to find us. Please . . . come with me," he begs as he extends his hand out to me.

I blink hard, not sure why I feel like I know him. I've never met this man, but my hand lands in his palm.

On contact, what feels like a ripple of light shunts through my veins—I gasp and almost choke on my tongue.

"Come on. I need you." He pulls on my hand, his eyes wild and skittish. He looks like a scared, trapped animal.

My hand flexes in his, and an overwhelming urge to shove him behind me and protect him with anything I can at my disposal, hits me.

I jump down, keeping my eyes on him the entire time.

Who is this man?

I cock my head at him, almost daring him to identify himself and tell me why my head is shouting at me that we have to stick together.

"Follow me; I know where we can hide out for tonight," he whispers and takes off running.

Without a second thought, I chase after the stranger.

Fuck! Can he be any quicker? He must've been takin' it easy when he chased me down. I can barely keep up.

His legs are obviously used to this and meant to run like a cheetah on steroids. I'm not very tall and even though I'm in decent shape, I can't match him stride for stride.

I grunt and reach for him.

His arm swings back, and my fingers graze the back of his elbow.

He turns his head, sees me and reaches back, gripping my hand. When I choke on my air, once again, because his touch is electrifying, he smiles.

He almost does a complete one-eighty a moment later as he leads us down an overgrown, trashed up alleyway.

There's not a soul around, which does not bode well.

A rock lands in my gut—settling there.

No, turn back! This is wrong!

I yank on his arm, but he continues to string me along.

The minute we think we're safe and alone. . . We're dead.

Since he won't stop, and he's stronger than I am, which apparently means he's making the decisions, I pull my gun back out—just in case.

At least he's out in front—he'll most likely be taken down first.

He cranks his head over his shoulder for a brief second to make sure I'm still tailing him. A grin spreads across his mug from ear-to-ear, and I snap my mouth closed and dig my nails into his palm, hoping the fucker will feel how displeased I am with this asinine plan to breeze through here.

He keeps going. Apparently he doesn't speak angry, intelligent bitch.

My lungs burn and feel warped. How long has it been since I've consumed any fluids?

I blink, and even though it's still lubricated enough, I worry soon it won't be the case.

He lets go of my hand, jumps some hurricane fencing, cutting through a yard at a diagonal and then hops it again. I'm right behind him, still dealing with my shitty shoes, giving me trouble.

He chucks himself over, making so much noise, I have to do a silent internal groan and roll my eyes.

No wonder he needs me. I need to teach this guy how to scale a fence properly. He may be able to outrun somebody, but he's so fucking loud, they'd be able to track him easily.

The minute an obstacle's in front of him, he's picked off. I could have shot him dozens of times in those two moments he struggled to get up and over.

"Faster, we need to get off of this street!" he rasps.

He finally sweats and breathes hard.

I guess I can quit worrying he's not human.

I motion with my arm for him to shut up and go faster, so we can get out of here.

His pace quickens, and a pathetic, girly cramp forms in my side. Blisters are forming on the back of my heels, but I keep going. It won't stop me from surviving. I have to.

We duck down a path with a canal.

_We'll be in the wide open space where anybody can see us! What the hell is he thinking?_

I grab his arm, and wind up accidentally scratching him. I refuse to be this idiotic! This path screams out _immediate_ death.

When he keeps going, I yank his arm back. Another shock of electricity hits me—but this one almost knocks me on my ass.

I blink and my left ankle twists, wobbling. I grit my teeth together, pretend it never happened, and point forcefully toward another path not nearly as reckless as his.

He nods and takes off down the side alley I've insisted he take.

I think I know where he's headed . . .

There's an abandoned house not too far from here. Good thing too, since there's nothing past this neighborhood for miles. My head throbs once more as I wonder how I know all this and how I'm aware, by car, it takes a good twenty minutes to get back to city life.

My wet collar hits my chin as I duck my head to avoid being smacked in the forehead by an overgrown bush, jutting out in our path. Fuck! I wipe the slime off my neck with my equally disgusting, moist hand.

As we pass by what I thought was our destination, I start to really question this guy's logic. Clearly, he's missing a lobe or two, and not the inconsequential ones.

He runs straight for a grade school. My eyes go wide. Skinheaded psycho cannot be serious. This is not my idea of safety.

Lead fills my stomach, and steam escapes my lungs as I exhale with a hiss. "Shhhhhhit! _No_!"

He chuckles. This fuckhead thinks I'm funny?

Fine. Let him get killed.

I go along with it, and shut the hell up. He'll think I'm patient and understanding, and when a bullet meets his half-formed brain, I'll escape out the back, and be gone before his blood hits the ground.

It's almost dusk. I'm leery, very cautious about our surroundings. If we aren't able to set up defenses before it's fully dark, we're screwed.

I bit the tip of my tongue, to keep from telling him his plan sucks rotting corpses.

He slows, pauses and looks around like he's about to cross the street or some lunacy. This isn't a busy highway . . . if somebody's hiding, his stalling by looking around, is only giving them ample opportunity to shoot him in the back.

I shove him in his back with a growl, propelling him in through the door, and the moment we're inside, he locks it.

How did he get a set of keys to this place?

Okay . . . I take a deep breath, and my shoulders move down several inches.

I yank at the front of my shirt, pillowing it in and out, to create a breeze and get this sticky mop of a shirt off my skin.

Cheetah-man finally slows his pace and actually ducks down like there are snipers all around, spotting us through the windows.

Can he be any more ridiculous? I lean against the wall and watch with utter amusement. With how loudly he shut the door and his momentous ten-hour pause outside, if somebody was gunning for him, he'd be dead already. _Fuck TV—I don't miss that form of entertainment. He's hilarious . . ._

I stay erect, and saunter after him with a smug look on my face.

I finally lose my patience and kick him in the butt. I motion for him to get off of his hands and knees.

He glares and his jaw clenches then he suddenly pales and swallows hard.

If he vomits from fear, I _will_ have to break his nose.

He gets up and starts zipping through the place. I roll my eyes. _Do we have to sprint? _

My legs drag along behind him.

His instincts are all wrong. There hasn't been one thing he's done right so far, except to run his ass off when we were outside. But what's the point of running so fast, if he's gonna do it with a target on the back? I'd rather hide behind bushes, dart from tree to tree, hidden, and conserve energy, have a few seconds in sporadic bursts, to think.

He leads me to the teacher's lounge in the center of the building.

In an instant, he locks the two doors on either end of us.

_Nice job, genius! Now we have no way to escape._

I scan the room, and shift my weight to the right. My left leg's pulsing with a dull ache.

The place is littered with a few tables and some chairs. There's a futon couch in the corner, along with a sink, a microwave and coffee maker on the counter. The cabinet doors above them are all open and emptied out.

My eyes crinkle at the corners.

The green-eyed, helpless man, watches me as I figure out a way to get up into the ceiling. I hop onto the countertop and push aside two ceiling tiles right next to the vent. When I get enough height by being on my tiptoes, I'm able to look around in the ceiling work. There are enough trusses we should be able to move around up here with relative ease.

I grin and blow some stray hairs out of my face. In the next moment, I've removed my backpack and have set it on the countertop. Next, I pull myself up without much effort, surrounding myself with musty old ceiling tiles.

What's the best way out of here? I head south and follow the electrical conduits in the ceiling, assuming they'll lead me to the back of the school, where utility sheds usually reside.

"Hey! Where you going?" he yells.

I ignore him and continue trying to get my bearings. Fuck! We need an exit!

I snap my head from side to the other, stretching real quick. Sweat pours down the back of my neck, and my inner elbows are slick as well.

There's some light filtering in straight ahead, so I head that way.

Finally! A quick exit's ahead, near the light source. I breathe with a smile. We're no longer helpless victims to be picked off.

I poke my head down the hole. It's a classroom with tons of unlocked windows.

My chuckle makes the ceiling move a little, so I swallow it down and steady my grip.

When I return back to the teacher's lounge, he's somehow procured a khaki, military-looking duffel bag.

Was it under the sink in the cabinets with a lock on them?

I click my tongue, and it's dry as hell.

Now that I know I can get out when we need to, I need to find a source of water.

"Where the hell did you go?" he asks, eyes wide and stormy. He leans toward me as if he thinks he can intimidate me. His shirt's been removed in the time I took my little trip away from him.

I cock an eyebrow at him, put my hand on my hip and then look away.

_Fuck you._ I don't answer to a pussy dressed like a badass. I know an asshole when I see one. My left hand grips the front of my tee shirt again, and pulls in and out. This room's humid and the air flow sucks.

No wonder his shirt's off.

He turns around and paces a little. There's a rather large dragon tattoo running down the length of his back. It's got seven eyes and seven horns on it; flames pour out of its mouth and lick at its front feet, but it's uncharred.

"What's your problem? Why don't you ever speak?" he complains then whirls on me. His eyes twitch, and look moist.

I don't have time for this. My God, does he think we're set up for the night?

My eyes shift around to prioritize what needs to be done.

The futon can be seen through the small rectangular windows located by the doors, so I pull the mattress off and drag it to a conspicuous corner then flatten it out on the floor. I can't be bothered to move the frame, and anyway, it'd be too loud, scraping along the ground.

What's the point of making that much effort when we'll most likely have to make a sudden escape in the middle of the night?

He pulls off his black Doc Martens and then strips out of his jeans.

I scowl. If he thinks we're cozying up in the nude, he's got a date with the morgue. I'll kill him before I do that. Nude? What is he _thinking_?

If we have to leave in a hurry, he won't have time to grab his clothes and put them back on. He doesn't stop and think anything through!

I pop my knuckles, and for the first time since waking up, I can't think of a damn thing to do. There's no water, but I need it. There's a bed, but I don't want it. There's a man, but I sure as fuck don't wanna be with him, even if my hearts says the opposite.

My teeth grind.

"It gets really stuffy in here at night. You're not gonna be able to sleep if you're wearing all of those clothes." He stares at me like I have two heads, because I'm still standing in place and I have yet to undress. "Who the hell sleeps in jeans? That's way too uncomfortable," he murmurs under his breath.

I stifle the urge to laugh. Sleeping in jeans is the last of my worries.

"What's your name? Let me guess . . . you don't have one," he says.

I lean against the sink and stare at the faucet. God, I'd kill him right now if I could get even one tiny drop of moisture out of this thing." I press my fingertip against the nozzle, and when I drag my finger away, all that coats my finger is a thin residue of hard water mineral deposits. If I didn't think the pipes would groan loud enough to wake the dead, I'd turn the knob on the faucet to make absolutely for certain they don't work.

"You gotta give me something. Please? Just a name," he says, his voice higher in pitch this time, belying his panic.

"I don't know," I finally say. I turn back around and look at him.

"Well, burn it all! This city can fell into the pits of hell now, because she speaks. Halleluiah! I thought I was stuck with a mute," he mocks me.

"Being loud is about the stupidest thing you can do," I reply, my eyes narrowed. My hands grip the counter's edge behind me, and my shoulders hunch and round forward, making my shirt tent in front. Ah, all I need is a breeze and about a gallon of water, and this would be perfect.

I eventually shove off from the counter, grab my backpack and shuffle over to the mattress. With a near inaudible grunt, I plop down and take over a corner of it. The second my ass touches down, I lean over, unzip the bag and start rummaging through it.

Holy shit! Whoever packed this bag seriously knew what they were doing.

The items inside are very useful. In the front pocket, there's a lighter, two flint and steels, waterproof matches, two rechargeable, battery-free flashlights, some Purell hand sanitizer, a metal camping can opener, and water purification tablets. In the second compartment of the bag there's a sewing kit, a simple first aid kit, tampons without applicators, some scissors, a compass, a map of the area, a folding shovel, some signal flares, a small pad of paper, a pen, a Sharpie, some small binoculars, and three-hundred dollars in cash.

In the main area, it contains a pair of well broken-in running shoes and socks. I rip off the Mary Jane's and slip these shoes on, only to find they fit perfectly! I gasp and curl my toes, digging into the comfortable soul.

God, yes! Finally something to help me.

Now if only the sky would open up and pour some liquid into my mouth.

When I dig deeper through the bag, praying there's water somewhere in here as I go, I find a tan ball cap, some SPF100 sun screen, a rain slicker, and thank God—_food!_

I tear open the vacuum sealed beef jerky and toss him a strip.

"Thanks, Mary," he says, shoving it in his mouth.

I crank my head at him and with narrowed eyes, ask, "What did you just call me?"

"Mary. You're wearing Mary Jane's or you _were _'til you put those shoes on, and since you don't know your name, I figured Mary's as good a name as any." He shrugs.

"My name is _not_ Mary. I'd rather go by Jane." I don't know why, but the name Mary makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stop chewing my food. "That's more suitable to my personality, 'cause it's not very noticeable. I know how to disappear, unlike you. You're a train wreck I can see coming from a mile away. I'm amazed you're not wounded at the very least by now. You know nothing about survival." I chuck some more food at him, like he's a dog, begging for my scraps.

"I know . . . that's why I need you. What's your story? Seen Tomb Raider one too many times?" He chuckles.

And I swear a goddamn hole opens up in the pit of stomach, because acid's leaking out of me, he makes my insides that uptight and fucking sore.

"I don't watch movies," I reply.

"Crazy! Did you live in a cave?" he asks with an edge to his voice, like I'm judging him.

I fake a yawn and zip the backpack up."Marten . . . do you know who Jacob Black is?"

His eyes go wide as he stares at me.

And that's when my foot slams into the pack, and sends it sliding a few feet away.

This is gonna be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Identities**

"_Marten_?" he asks, eyebrow popped up.

"Yeah, if you're going to call me Jane, then I might as well name you after your shoes too," I say as I motion to his boots. He actually looked really hot in them; I can imagine him thundering down the road on a massive motorcycle, but that's beside the point.

"That's not my name; it's Edward," he corrects me.

"I don't give a rats ass what your name is. I'm not going to be around long enough for you to know me," I tell him.

He stares at me impassively and exhales in a loud gush, his shoulders rolling forward.

"Where do you think you're gonna go? You were already being held captive," he says.

What, don't tell me . . . He think he can keep me safe? I snort.

"Yeah, and I escaped just fine without you. You slow me down," I explain.

"Slow _you_ down? You were barely able to keep up with me, _Jane_," he says, like my new name is a curse word.

"I'm not talking about your track-star skills," I huff. "I'm talking about the way you have no clue how to keep hidden and stay alive."

"Teach me." He blinks several times and sits, unmoving.

"I only teach people who listen and you clearly don't," I say, my voice edgy.

Why are we talking about this? I'm not staying with him? I don't care what he says or how my heart aches when I think about abandoning him. He'll get me killed.

"What the hell are you talking about? You've barely spoken a word to me, and I've heard everything you've said." His brow creases, and his eyes narrow at the outer edges as his nose lifts.

"Then who the fuck is Jacob Black?" I ask.

I hold out a laminated picture of some Native American guy that was in the bottom of the backpack.

"I have no idea who that is," he says, pushing it back at me.

"Turn it over," I tell him.

He flips the picture after I give it back to him, and stares at it.

"What does this say? Is this some sort of code?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Yeah, it's a very simple code though." I grab it back. Somebody took the time to type out a little message and glue it to the back of the picture. I read it out loud, "Ginf Jsvon Nlsvk, snf you'll ginf yhr sndertdz."

"Are you sure it's code? Maybe it's another language," he points out.

"What? _Klingon_? I don't think so. It's pretty easy to figure out. All they did was shift their left hand over one letter to the right. It says, 'Find Jacob Black, and you'll find the answers.' Apparently I need to find this man since you haven't given me any answers at all," I say. My legs relax and extend. I cross my left ankle over my right.

Edward's pretty much useless. I have to leave. When it's morning, I'm getting as far away from him and this place as I can get.

He drags his hands down his face, and the weariness that wasn't there before when we were running, finally appears. He looks pale, drained and sweaty.

"Damn! Let me see that again," he says as he snatches it out of my hands. He studies it and then scrutinizes me as I repack my bag.

"You're right, that _is_ what it says. And where'd you get that backpack? _Somebody_ was really prepared." His left foot bounces around with nervous energy.

"I didn't even empty the whole thing out. There's more food in there, a really sweet multipurpose tool, a switchblade and even some safety pins, but there's nothing to drink," I say. I close my eyes and do my best to ignore the aridness at the back of my throat. It's really starting to burn, and all this talking isn't helping.

"Gotcha covered," he says with an arrogant wink.

He tosses me a water bottle he fishes out of his duffel bag.

Bastard! Why didn't he get this out right away? We both need to stay hydrated.

I push my backpack to the side; grab his bag from him and rifle through it.

There are a few porno magazines inside, a change of clothes, a worn army blanket, several water bottles, Gatorades and a towel.

"That's it? That's all you've got for survival?" I ask, my voice going up.

"Hey, you can go a long time without food but if you don't have water you're dead," he quips.

"If you're insinuating _I_ packed this bag of mine, I didn't. I stole it. If _I_ had done it, you'd sure as hell see plenty of water in it and some Emergen-C packets as well," I defend myself.

"Okay, fine. So, what was your plan after you escaped the rock you crawled out from under?" He crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at the ceiling.

"No plan. I never have one. I survive by finding shelter and food without making my presence known." How have I kept from leaving or killing this moron up to this point? He asks the dumbest questions.

"So, why don't you know your own name? Were you born in a barn or something?" he muses.

"No, I can't remember much of anything, although I recognize this area. I think I may have hit my head. A massive headache and a lot of déjà vu type of things happening to me—even _you_ look familiar, but I don't remember ever meeting you before today," I say.

An irrational look of fear momentarily crosses his features, and he goes even paler. A moment later, he pulls out one of his obscene magazines and lies down on the mattress.

"Get some sleep. You can mess around with yourself later. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow." How old is this guy? Twelve; thinking the end of the world means he can jack off to his heart's content without mommy and daddy ever stopping him? Is this a vacation to him?

"Oh _yeah_? You going to Disneyland tomorrow or something," he chortles.

"No . . ." Suddenly my chest swells inside, and I know what I have to do. "Tomorrow we're going to take over that place where I was being held hostage." I rip the magazine out of his hand and chuck it across the room.

He glares at me but does as I bid. His long, lean body stretches out, and he slides his bag under his head, turning it into a makeshift pillow.

The silence is welcome. I can't stand hearing his voice. It bothers me how I react to it. I've gotten several chills from the low, silky rasp when he talks, and it makes me annoyed as hell that I even care about it.

I grab the front of my shirt and puff it in and out a few more times. Could this room be any more humid with staler air? I can't fucking breathe in here.

Nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

A chill freezes its way down his spine as my eyes drift over to his backside.

I don't care what he does, says, or how he looks. He's a dick.

I flick my gaze back over to my backpack. Wish I had more than one gun, but it should hopefully be enough to get into that place tomorrow, unless he's fortified it.

I rub the back of my neck. My head still pounds like a mother fucking base drum being hit by a baseball bat. My eyes slide up in my head and my lids close.

When I think he's asleep, I get up to go retrieve the magazine. What I wouldn't give for some suitable reading material—_something_ to get my mind off things for a little while.

I sit myself back down and now that I'm still, my head is about ready to explode. Unwilling to let him know I'm using up any of our supplies—wait, what's _ours_? I did not just think I have to share with him, did I? This is _my_ stuff; _I _took it, not _him_. I don't have to give him a single thing if I don't want to.

My diaphragm spasms, and I stop breathing. Does he have to smell like that? Shit. I need to get some clean air.

_Share your stuff . . ._

_Why would I do that?_

I rub my stomach with my palm. He did give me a water bottle when he could have withheld it easily and justifiably so.

I quietly sigh at my terrific luck. Finding a helpless newborn baby would've worked more in my favor than being landed with this jackass that can't be bothered to get something decent to read besides CanCan magazines. This isn't even decent porn. So many other magazines would've sustained better arousal.

I reach into my bag, pull out the First Aid kit and ignore the guilt clawing at my stomach, overtaking it. I think there's an alien baby inside there, gnawing its way out—it hurts that fucking badly.

For some stupid, lame reason, I feel like I'm stealing!

Gulping down the Tylenol dry is not a problem, and since I'm rationing my water, I choose not to use it for this insignificant pill. Though I'm sure dehydration has a lot to do with why this headache is next to debilitating.

"You some kind of junkie or something?" he asks, quietly.

I jump, startled.

Shit. I thought he was asleep.

"You finally figuring out how to sneak up on me?" I ask. Maybe he is teachable?

"No. I've been watching you this whole time. I guess you're not as covert and observant as you think you are," he says, scratching his balls with religious zeal.

"Nice," I say dryly, my eyes flicking to his crotch.

"Fuck you, Mother Theresa," he says as he rolls over.

"No thank you. I don't really like you, and you're not my type, nor am I that desperate to get some action."

"Could have fooled me. You're looking at my porn stash. Are you lesbian or something?" he probes, his voice muffled since he's turned away from me.

"No. _That_ I would remember. I don't mind a guy's junk but yours doesn't appeal to me. Plus, I wouldn't do the human race a disservice by allowing you to spread your evil seed around. I don't have any condoms on me," I say. My fists ball up and my neck rolls from side to side, to try and relieve the strain there.

If I could just punch the shit out of him, I'd probably release a ton of energy and feel a lot better.

"Dream on," he sneers. He flips over and stares at me with those forest green orbs of his. "I'm not your type? Honey, you're a fucking nightmare, thinking you're Rambo or some shit. Why don't you go to sleep instead of pretending like you've gotta be the sentinel here. Then you can dream about what you're _not_ gonna get from me."

"If I do get any sleep, I sure as hell won't be dreaming about you and your miniscule dick," I say. "And the next time you grab something to read, can you get something that requires an IQ greater than a twelve-year-old? I mean, Jesus. This isn't even good porn." I toss it at his head.

"Why are you such a bitch? Did you realize we're living in the Road Warrior world, but without Mel Gibson? Or maybe it's simpler? Maybe Daddy took away your Porsche for not making straight A's?" He smirks, and his leg still bops around.

"No. My dad's dead," I say automatically. I gasp in horror as a quick flash flits through my pulsing skull.

"Do you remember something?" he asks; he bolts upright.

"I . . . Yeah, I _do_ . . . I was in a car crash and my parents were with me. My dad was driving; my mom was in the passenger seat. I was in the back, and the only one wearing a seatbelt. We were driving cross country. I think from Washington state maybe . . . ?" I search my feeble brain for more clarity, but all I get is fuzzy reception. I cringe and blink hard.

"How long ago was this?" he asks, tone agitated. He gets into a kneeling position, looking ready to grip me by the arms and rattle me to get my brain to cough up his lost quarter.

"A few years ago? I want to say it was my junior year of high school?" I rub my eyes with my fists. Did I dream this? It seems very real and a rush of emotions swell within me, making it even harder to get air past my constricting throat.

He reaches out to touch me, and I automatically jump back.

"I don't do that touching shit!" I hiss through clenched teeth, glaring.

"Relax. Damn! I wasn't going to kiss you or anything. I was only going to touch your hand," he says, his eyes shifting down and away from me.

"Don't touch me at all. Keep your grubby hands to yourself," I warn. "I don't _touch_ people." I can't remember why that's my rule but it seems pretty vital. And at this point, my skin isn't crawling away from him, its running and not giving a shit how it'll survive out there.

"Fine, I won't even breathe on you. Not like I want to be close to you anyway. You're about as cuddly as a pit viper." He turns his head away.

"And you're any more charming?"

"What's the matter? Can't take how hot I am?" he goads.

"_Ohhhhh yeahhhhh_ . . . Those fake colored contacts have me all sorts of slobbering over you. Baby, I'm just playing hard to get. I really can't wait for you to throw me down on this ratty old mattress we're on so you can make me see stars," I say through my teeth.

"Good, that's exactly what you need—a hard pounding to shut your smart mouth up. I'm sure I can find you some blind man with a lack of smell, hard up enough he'll have sex with you for giggles and fun. Let me know when you've lost that cherry and maybe we can be friends again since you'll stop being such a frigid, cold hearted cunt." His face contorts in pain, and he slams his back into the wall behind him. His arms are so tight over his chest, his forearms are bulging and twitching.

"I've done it plenty, but I have _some_ taste. I don't spread my legs for losers, pretending to be a badass skinhead with a weak tattoo on their back," I say. I grab the water bottle and take a few swigs.

Oddly, while he grows tenser and goes on the defensive, I relax and feel more in my element.

His whole face pinches tight and he hisses in a menacing whisper, "You have _no idea _who I am, and I'm _so_ glad. Because if you had half a clue, you'd be singing a totally different tune."

I flip him off and lie down next to him. I turn to the opposing wall. Like I give a dying fuck who this asshole is?

"Don't touch me and we'll survive the night."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he snaps.

"My gun's not leaving my side," I warn. I pull it out of my waistband and shove it down my wet bra.

"Do you even know how to shoot that thing? Or are you trying to impress me? 'Cause you know, it's not all that impressive to watch you shoot yourself in the foot," he says, snickering.

"I can shoot. I know how to hunt with a bow and arrow too. If we weren't in the middle of the infernal dessert, I'd be fishing every weekend. My dad used to take me out to fish all the time." Another memory wildly flashes, taking my breath away. It passes so swiftly through the chasm of my mind, I can barely catch it all.

"_Dad!" I yell as I trip and fall._

"_Baby doll, what are you doing? I told you to wait in the car while I set up the tent," he says, trying to scowl, but not quite pulling it off._

"_I want to help," I whine._

_He pats my head. He understands I want to hang out with him and be of service. I hate being a burden._

"_I know you do, but you're too little. I can get it done faster if you're not in my way," he says with a proud smile._

"_If I was a boy, you'd let me help. And I'm not little. I'm ten-years-old," I protest._

"_That's right . . . I forgot," he says with mock surprise. "Let's celebrate. Tonight we'll light a big fire and make birthday s'mores for you."_

"_Yeah, I love those," I say with a happy jump. I clap once._

"_I know you do. Now, go see if I brought enough Hershey bars and marshmallows. I'll check on the graham crackers," he says._

"_Okay," I say while I race back to the car and trip two more times en route._

_I make a mess of the plastic bin with our food in it._

"_Got it!" I yell, a few feet away through the trees._

"_Great!" he hollers back._

_I skip my way back to him and he's got the tent nearly all of the way completed._

"_I love this tent," I say, beaming. He's my hero, and I'd do anything to make him forget I wasn't a boy. I'll climb every tree in this forest and hunt an elk if I have to. I'm not weak, and I can prove it!_

"_Well, that's good, since I bought it with you in mind. I know you hate it when it rains so I got rid of our old one. I gave it to Billy. This one has a waterproof covering that's supposed to withstand all but a tidal wave. And since the weatherman did not report any scary weather like that, I think we're pretty safe." He gives me a thumbs up, and I give one right back._

_I'm so happy we're having daddy-daughter time like this. Mom stayed home because she had a really bad stomach ache and was tired. I don't like camping with Mom anyway. She tells me to get out of the dirt and to quit shining the flashlight in her eyes. She also squeals with fright each time I show her a cool new bug I've caught. _

_Dad and I have an understanding though. Nature is a part of us. The trees, the filth, it calls to us. It's home, and the grimier we get, the better. I love digging up worms for his bait and gutting a fish is my favorite part. My dad says in two years he'll get me my own knife for skinning the fish we catch._

_As soon as it's dark, he starts up the fire. We sing songs that are purely gibberish and silliness; we make so many s'mores my stomach may explode or I may throw up. Eh . . . Either way, I'm happy._

"_Tired?" he asks, a twinkle in his eyes._

"_No. I want to stay up with you," I howl in disgust over the thought of leaving his side._

_I yawn, and he picks me up to put me to bed._

"_I'm not tired, really," I say. I grab his arm._

"_I'll be right out here, right outside the tent. You're safe. Go to sleep, and I'll be inside in no time at all," he says calmly._

_I claw at his shirt when he tries to lay me down on my air mattress I despise. I want to rough it like him. Mom insisted I sleep on this stupid thing so I won't be grumpy tomorrow from not sleeping well on a simple mat. _

"_Don't leave me in here, Dad," I cry in panic._

"'_All right, baby doll. I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, and then I have to get up and put that fire out," he says._

_I yawn really wide as he settles me on the squeaky mattress._

"_Can I sleep with you on the ground?" I beg._

"_Sweetie, Mom said . . ."_

"_I know, but I'm the birthday girl, and I can handle it. I won't tell Mom. Please . . . !" I pout with the puppy dog eyes. _

_He can't ever resist when I give him the big-eyed patented pout._

_He chuckles. "You sure know how to make your old man cave faster than Batman," he says._

_I never really understand what he means when he says that. It probably doesn't have a real meaning since Dad likes to make up weird sayings all of the time that make my mom laugh._

_He pulls my shoes off and puts me inside of my sleeping bag without making me brush my teeth or get into my pajamas. My insides warm faster than my outsides, because my heart swells over how great my dad is. Mom would've never allowed me to get away with any of this._

"_Dad?" I ask timidly._

"_Yes, sweetie?" he answers._

_I cringe, hating it when he calls me that. It sounds so prissy and girly._

"_I love you," I say with another deep yawn._

"_I love you too. Goodnight," he says, ending the conversation._

_His large hand pats my hair softly and then he rests it on my waist, making me feel very safe and cared for._

.

.

.

I wake to an excruciating headache, but even more disturbing is the charge running up my arms and blazing in my chest.

I'm constricted; can't move.

Unwilling to alert my captor to the fact I'm coherent, I move my head fractionally so I can see whose arms have me pinned in place.

There's a wet sigh at my ear, and I smell that fragrance that sets me on edge.

It's him—dragon-backed-creep who thinks he walks on water—and he's got his arms around me in some sort of sick, twisted embrace.

His legs are pressed up behind me, and I can feel his morning wood saying hello to my backside.

It takes every ounce of my energy to keep from shoving him off me in disgust.

_It's light outside. Get up, go take a leak, check out the perimeter and figure out if it's safe to leave._

My head barks out orders, and my legs coil, ready to spring to life.

I slowly roll out of his grip, and the moment he's not touching me and my skin stops crawling from the strange electric current that runs through his repulsive body, I rub the sleep out of my eyes.

I can't believe how long I slept. It doesn't seem like me. I'm too wired and tightly wound to sleep that soundly. It feels wrong to feel this rested.

And damn it all if my dream about my dad wasn't pleasant, but also as annoying as this fuckhead. I don't want to remember the _good ol' days_. I don't wanna feel anything at all. Looking back and reminiscing is a waste of time. I've got better things to do. There are other things I need to remember, not what it was like to be ten.

My shoulders tense. I stretch a little to loosen up.

Rather than commandeer his janitor keys he's acquired, I decide to go the ceiling path. It's quieter.

Before I leave his humble abode, I mentally kick myself for not better securing the area last night. It was careless of me to not at least prop some chairs up against the locked doors. Not that it would stop anybody, but it would slow them down, and buying a little time can be the difference between life and death.

_God, you're as stupid as he is when it comes to surviving . . ._

I swiftly make my way through the rafters and shift a few tiles around to get a view of the classroom below me to make sure it's all clear. It appears to be a biology room.

I poke my head through the ceiling. It's safe, so I move down into the room.

I slip out of the space quickly and find the boy's bathroom. I relieve myself in the urinal and ignore washing my hands. The best way to alert somebody I'm here is to have water running through the pipes. No thanks. I'll use my Purell when I get back, as long as Mr. Clean hasn't alerted the whole neighborhood as to our whereabouts.

I toe my way back into the biology room and step around the model skeleton sprawled on the ground. This room's been pillaged as well, but I manage to find a broken Bunsen burner. I light up inside.

There's gas available if we need it. Hell yeah. Things are looking better. I smile.

I pop back in to the teachers' lounge only to find sleeping beauty still snoozing soundly. I want to bite him, fuck him up by sticking my foot up his ass because he's such a waste of space, and because he makes me feel things. But since he gave me a water bottle, it can wait. I'll do that later.

It seems a fair trade off. He keeps me hydrated—and I don't kill him until he stops supplying me with fluids when he runs out.

I clean my hands with the sanitizer and start looking through my food. I quietly open up a canister of dried apricots and a can of peanuts. My stomach is snarling and is loud enough to attract attention, so I need to shut it up.

"You planning on waking me up and saying goodbye before you left, or is that too _nice_ for you?" he asks. He rolls over and presses his mouth into a thin line of defiance.

Why is he upset? What'd I do to him?

I throw a small handful of peanuts at him and he impressively catches most of them in his mouth.

"Jerk," I spit.

"Hag," he retorts in kind.

"You touched me," I say.

"_You_ touched _me_," he counters.

"Prove it."

"I don't wake up with a problem between my legs unless somebody's touching me," he replies.

I bark a laugh, and almost choke on my peanuts. That's the fucking stupidest and funnies thing he's said to me so far. When I sigh and get my breath back, I kick in his general direction, but keep from touching him. "Like I said . . . _you_ were touching _me_. You had that lame excuse for an appendage wedged between my thighs. It was _not_ a pleasant way to start my morning." I go back to munching on my fairly decent breakfast. I've definitely had worse.

"Next time find your own mattress to sleep on," he grouses and then lurches forward, grabbing the apricots.

"I'll find my own mattress when _you_ find your own food." I nudge his leg away from me. His obnoxious leg hairs were brushing up against my foot. Even that was sending an insane spark through my veins. What is with his skin? Did he swallow a pack of nine volt batteries before he met me?

I need to keep covered head to toe around this guy. I stand up, getting ready to slip my shoes on and leave.

"Oh yeah? Is that a challenge?" he asks then he quickly approaches me. He looms over me, swaying himself back and forth with a swagger until his mouth is inches from mine.

I gulp as quietly as I can.

"You can do whatever you want and leave me the hell alone after we break into that safe house I was in yesterday," I say, sounding way more fragile than I want to. My fingers flex.

_Touch him again . . . You know you want to feel that erotic charge._

_No! Fuck no!_

"What are you going to do when you get inside?" he asks. His tongue pokes out and wets his lower lip.

Unngh, his smell is . . . _too much, too good._

But I stare him down, pretending I won't play his game.

"I don't do pissing contests with guys who have smaller balls than mine," I say.

And in a blinding flash, he's reached down my shirt and has my gun pointed in my face.

"Who's got the bigger balls now, sweetheart?" he challenges, leering at me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Triggers**

Great! Looks like I'm going to have to kill him now, and I haven't even finished my breakfast yet. I don't even have a decent way of washing up. Purell doesn't remove blood from clothing.

I reach back behind me and twist my long hair up into a knot.

I watch as his eyes rake down my body while I affix my hair out of my face.

"I didn't want to have to tell you this," I say, deadpan.

"Tell me what? That you suck as a human being? That you're really a pod-person without a soul?" he says, smiling.

"I didn't want to have to tell you that . . ." I lick my lips at him like he did to me, as way of distraction " . . . the safety's on." His eyes flicker to the gun, and it's enough for me to yank it out of his hand and turn it back around on him.

Only I'm not so foolish to keep it within range of his grasp, and I know what I'm doing with a gun. I switch the safety off and aim right at his shiny dome.

I immediately retreat several paces, reaching for my backpack without taking my eyes off him.

He stalks toward me until I cock my piece.

"Wanna try me?" Suddenly a flood of memories lance through my brain, and I remember a few fragments of my childhood and early teen years. Most of what I see revolves around handling guns. A vision runs in fast forward of a thin man with a mustache taking me out for target practice with his gun. He's got on a Sheriff's badge. When the memory blurs, I realize that's my dad.

"My dad was a cop, and he taught me how to shoot when you were probably barely figuring out that twig is between your legs. Don't follow me. If I see you, I'll shoot you in your stupid green eyes." I jump up onto the countertop.

"Wait!" he cries when I'm climbing up into the ceiling. "We can help each other. I know where Legion's hideouts are, so I can help you avoid running into them."

I stop and turn the gun back on him. "What's Legion?" I ask, the name sounding vaguely familiar.

"Not what—_who_. They're the ones in charge. They're the reason everything's screwed up!" he says. His fist flies behind him, and he hits the wall in frustration.

"Explain. But hurry up 'cause I've got somewhere to be," I say.

He picks up my food I abandoned and tries to hand it to me.

"Stay right there. Don't come any closer to me. You can keep it, and I'll let you live. There's plenty of food where I'm going," I tell him.

I figure there's no harm in telling this doofus since he can't seem to figure out how to escape through the ceiling, so how would he break in once I get that place all situated and sealed up tight?

"Ah shit . . . that's right . . . you can't remember anything," he reminds himself, swiping at his face.

I tap my toe on the countertop. Is there a reason he's so slow to tell me everything?

"Okay . . . _Jesus_!" he gripes with an exhale. "I don't know how to tell you the whole world is basically gone."

I wait for the punch line. "And?" I ask, gaze impassive.

"_And?_ Bombs fell a few weeks ago and obliterated every major city. Legion did it; they're responsible. You only survived because you live out in the middle of nowhere, and nobody cares about a few stupid farms in this area. I survived because I was crashed out; drunk off my ass in the back of a pickup truck I hitch hiked in, from California. For some reason the owners of the pickup left me alone and didn't kick me to the curb. I woke up when I heard the massive, ear-splitting explosions. My ears were ringing for days. I didn't start seeing the absolute devastation until I tried to drive into the valley so I could find some food.

"There were bodies everywhere and rubble all over the place. You can only get through it if you walk, ride a motorcycle, bike or have a really rugged all terrain vehicle. By the time I got into Ahwatukee, the savages that survived, already picked most places clean. Grocery stores that survived the bombs were cleared out. There wasn't a speck of food or medical supplies left. I managed to scrounge up some food from a few houses that were barely standing, but I had to ignore the smell of the rotting corpses."

My stomach lurched. "What date did the attack happen?"

"Why does it matter?" he responds, staring vacantly at me.

"Just tell me the date," I demand.

"June twelfth," he says, his entire body sagging.

"What's the date today?"

"I don't know. Do I look like I've got my day planner on me?" he huffs.

"Give me a guess," I say.

"I have no fucking clue, but I think it's been about three or four weeks since the sky was lit up and on fire," he tells me. He cocks his head.

"A _month_?" I mumble to myself. "I've lost a _whole_ month."

"What's the last thing you remember? Maybe you hit your head when the earth was shaking from the blasts?"

I shake my. That doesn't sound right.

"The last thing I remember is . . ." I suck in my bottom lip for a second as I rack my brain for information ". . . being in bed with somebody. I had him cuffed, and I gave him what he wanted up to a point. I waited until he was screaming for me to let him come . . . then after I let him finish, I uncuffed him, and he taught me the rest of how to assemble a new version of a pipe bomb I wanted to learn about. Then he left. I was at his place . . . I _think_. I don't recall ever seeing that place more than that one time."

"Who was he?" He gulps, a pained expression on his face.

"Beats the hell out of me. He was blond and he had curly hair too; normally not my type." I shrugged. "Oh and he had blue eyes. Looked like some stupid surfer or some garbage." I tense up. Saying this stuff aloud is annoying. I never talk about this stuff. Why am I telling him anything about me at all? I look away from him. The way he looks at me . . . Fuck!

I reach up and rest my hands on the corner of the ceiling tile, wishing I was away from him already.

"Did he give you . . . p-pleasure; a release?" he asks, stumbling on his words.

I roll my eyes. "I don't know a man who can get me to the finish line. I faked it so he'd show me how to blow stuff up." Are we done yet? I cut him a look, saying I'm ready to go.

"Man, you really need to be taken by a real man," he comes back at me.

"When I find one and he blows my damn mind with an out of body experience orgasm, I'll send you a postcard." I purse my lips and blow out.

"Hermaphrodites are hard to make climax. Maybe _you're_ one of them. Makes sense, considering you clearly think you're Schwarzenegger reincarnate," he says. His right leg extends forward like he wants to get closer to me, but he holds his spot.

My eyes drift to his foot.

"_Please_." I snort. "I could take down the ex-governor of _Cawifohnia,_ any day. The man's a hack. Besides, it's painfully obvious you're used to dating girls with acrylics and plastic chests. No wonder you're familiar with hermaphrodites." I smirk.

"I don't date fake girls like that. I don't do fake," he says, his hands fisted at his sides. The knuckles move and blanch.

"Uh huh, sure, and you don't wear contacts for that _fake_, ridiculous eye color either," I say, clicking my tongue at the end.

_Why am I standing here arguing with this loser? Just leave already._

"They're real. This _is_ my eye color. I wish it wasn't. I'm cursed," he says with an edge of sadness in his tone.

"Bullshit!"

"Get off your pedestal there and take a closer look for yourself," he challenges.

"I know real eyes when I see them. _My_ eyes are green you bonehead." I roll my eyes.

"Your eyes are brown," he responds.

"Take a closer look," I echo his words.

I jump down off the counter, and he approaches me with the ease and fluidity of a jungle cat, hunting its prey. It sets me on edge. My jaw flexes.

He peers into my eyes while I stand face-to-face with him.

I study his irises carefully. And I'm blown away.

_Whoa!_ They are real. There are flecks of amber splashed randomly around the pupil. You can't fake subtle details like that. I gasp.

His demeanor slightly shifts, his eyes become full, heavy and almost heated as he stares into my eyes.

"You have very exotic eyes," he whispers against my mouth.

"You do too," I reply.

"That's the darkest shade of green I've seen, and they're surround by a ring of chocolate brown on the outside, but the way they morph into each other is breathtaking," he says with almost a reverential awe. "The most beautiful hazel eyes I've ever seen."

"My dad had brown eyes, and my mom had blue. Somehow I wound up with this crazy mixture. I think my mom's father had green eyes or something like that," I say, trying desperately to remember.

I can see a vision of soft blue eyes peering at me as my mom gives me a kiss on my head. She's baking me cookies in a small kitchen, until my memory shifts, and then she's covered in blood in a smashed up car on the side of a highway. Her eyes are wide open, but they're lifeless, dull . . . the life gone out of them. I shake my head slightly to get that searing vision to leave my mind.

Oh God, I'm going crazy. I'm having wild flashes all over the place now. What is this man doing to me? Why am I seeing these things?

"Damn!" he whimpers.

"What?"

"Our kids would have the most beautiful eyes ever," he says.

"Our kids would be the spawn of Satan, since you're obviously the devil. Who cares about shit like that anyway if the world's ended?" I pull away and head back over for my exit. "S in the next circle of hell when I get there, green-eyed monster." I salute him.

"Uuugh!" he groans. "You don't know the prophecies very well."

"Shut it, Marten. I'm leaving," I say, my voice cold and absent of any remorse.

"It's Edward," he corrects me through an exasperated exhale. "And the reason I seem familiar to you is because you've seen my picture before."

"Is there a point to all of this stalling, because I swear, I won't be upset in the least over wasting a bullet on you." I tilt to the left and rest my right hand on my hip.

"Sit your butt down, and I'll tell you why you can't leave without me," he says, pointing back at the mattress.

"If this involves you being resurrected after hanging on a cross, then I'm gonna have to demand my money back. I've already seen that flick, and I wasn't impressed."

His eyes go wide. He stops breathing, his jaw open.

What's his problem? My eyebrows join forces in the middle and drop down, like they wanna sit on the bridge of my nose 'til they figure out what he's going on about. "Edward . . .?"

He slips into an almost catatonic state.

"Edward!" I say a little louder.

He walks over to the mattress and lies down. The man looks absolutely troubled, sighing heavy; it's a burdened, wholly upsetting sound.

I don't know why I care, but for some stupid reason I lie down next to him. Maybe it's to keep an eye on my potential enemy?

No, that's not it. But I keep my gun in my hand, although far from his reach. I don't understand him. Do I want to? That question is unsettling, because I'm afraid I might not like the answer.

"Tell me," I growl.

"You're not far off the mark." He sucks in a deep breath. Several foul mouthed words are muttered under his breath and then he starts in, "First, you tell me something. You said you don't touch people, so I can't touch you. Yet a few moments ago, you said the last thing you remember is having sex with some dude and you don't even remember his name. Why did you touch _him_?" His voice is soft, yet there's an underlying bitterness she couldn't quite pinpoint.

"He had something I wanted, and money doesn't always get me what I want. It sounds like now that the world has been pulverized, it's even less likely to get me what I want, so I use my body when I need it." I try not to look at him. For some reason I feel like dirt telling him this, even though I can tell I've never felt ashamed of it before. I've never had to justify my choices to anybody though so maybe that's all this is?

I squirm around internally, feeling anything but okay.

"Oh . . . so I can touch you then?" he asks.

"Were you _listening _to me? You have nothing I want, so _no_! You can't touch me—not _ever_!" I tap my fingers on my stomach.

"Fine, I get it."

More mumbling by him about me being a frigid bitch or a tease or some bullshit.

I ignore it. Or pretend to anyway. For some lame reason it stings to hear he thinks of me this way.

"Tell me, now!" I blurt to get him back on track.

"Patience is a virtue you know?" he huffs. His head turns on the mattress toward me.

He's breathing loud. So loud, it's hard to concentrate. I nudge his leg with mine to give him a little shove to get started. The sooner I can leave here, the better off I'll be.

"Do you recognize the name Azar? It's short for Eleazar."

I nod briefly. I'm not sure how I know it, or from where, but it does feel slightly familiar.

"Do you remember thirty five years ago he made some prophecies concerning the end of the world?" he asks, his voice shaky.

"No, but continue on," I say.

"He was considered the prophet that paved the way; a voice of warning before the end would strike. He made many dire predictions," he says softly, with a husky low voice that is making my insides feel funny again. He puts one hand in the air above him and pretends his hand's a gun he's shooting. When he turns his head toward me once more, his green eyes pierce into me . . . And I . . . God.

I slowly start inching away from him. This feeling is . . . _disconcerting. _This low level hum inside my body, telling me he's important, that I belong with him, has my teeth locking in place.

"He prophesied about the date the end would take place: December twelfth, twenty twenty-four. Looks like he was six months off. He declared on that day Christ would come. Christians everywhere were mad at him because he denounced Jesus Christ from the Bible as the Messiah. He said our redeemer hadn't come yet, and he would come at the most wicked time the world has ever known. Naturally, Christians around the world hunted him down. He was eventually caught and murdered, but not before he could train up one of his disciples to take over in his stead. It was his son, Peter. He's in charge now and has his own group of loyal worshipers."

"Why are you taking all of this so personal? You sound pissed about it. Did Azar kill your dog or something?" I tease to break him from his sullen mood.

"No, but that would have been better than what he really did to me," he says in an even more somber mood.

"What _did_ he _do_ to you?" How could this so called prophet have done anything to him at all? Did I get sucked in by a crazy person?

"Are you religious at all? Do you believe in God?" He changes course abruptly.

"No, not really. I read the Bible with my family growing up, but I thought of it more as entertaining stories with morals thrown in here and there. Organized religion is _not_ for me," I admit.

"Did you ever read the book of Revelations in the New Testament?" He bends one knee up, and sways it back and forth, lazily.

"Yeah, I'm sure I did." My eyes follow his leg; transfixed. It's better than looking into those green eyes of his.

"_A_zar expounded on some of things revealed in that book. One of the things he revealed was . . . well, it's hard to explain in detail, but suffice it to say he foretold when the real Christ would come, he would not be of Jewish decent like so many people believed he would be. He would be a natural born American. He described him as having hair like the minerals of the earth: copper in color. His eyes would be green, the color of the earth from outer-space when not looking at its oceans, but at its vegetation, and that he would lead the remaining people that did not perish from a fiery death, to salvation."

"Okay, so what did he do to you?"

His leg movement speeds up. "The last piece of information he shared was his initials would be E. M. and he would live on the west coast." He shakes his head, and my eyes flit up to his face. He frowns and his eyes are soft; filled with the full weight of the world. "I fit all of those criteria, Jane. I've been hiding, because Peter and his group found me. They're after me. They think I'm the chosen one, and I'm not. I shaved off all my hair for years and even waxed. I was about to get permanently laser-hair-removal, but then the end came before I could do it."

"E. M? You said your first name was Edward, but what's the M?" I ask, ignoring the bit about why he's bald.

"Masen, it means stone worker, and many people believe that means building up the temple of God," he says. "I've been calling myself Edward Cullen for the last few years as a secret identity so nobody would know who I was. I've got no family to identify me now, since they all died in the bombs. I didn't have any friends. But years ago there was a world-wide search for this promised Messiah, and People magazine printed up dozens of pictures of me along with a few other candidates. I was the only one that fit all of the criteria. I left California and came here to Arizona. I figured if I lived here instead, I'd at least be changing some of what might be deemed my destiny or fate. But I'm not him, I mean 'it.'

I held my breath, my gut was tightly wired.

"There's nothing perfect about me. I have a foul temper, I curse all the time, I'm addicted to porn, I drink, I smoke and if I could find a willing girl, I'd waste the rest of my days fucking her endlessly. I can't lead anybody, let alone myself. I got this tattoo on my back to represent the seven seals it talks about in the Bible. I'm not here to save mankind or anybody except myself. But I don't know what I'm doing. I need your help." His eyes plead with me to somehow save him from this nightmare he feels trapped in.

"That's all very interesting, but I'm not about to take on some deluded head-case with a supposed Jesus-freak mob after him. I've got enough problems of my own," I say. My toes tingle when I think of running away. Are they going numb on me? I sit up, and stare at my hole in the ceiling I created.

"That's not all of the prophecy. There's more," he says. His hand juts out to stop me from leaving. He doesn't touch me, but I can feel the heat radiating off his hand inches from my stomach.

"Move. Your. Hand," I snap, my head swinging his way. I glare at him.

"Don't leave until you've heard the rest of it," he says, his voice low. "Please."

"Fine. What is so important that I _need_ to hear?"

"There's a protector that's provided. It said _she_ would rise up from the ashes, like a Phoenix, and she would be alone, weary and wandering. Her hair would be dark like the burnt embers from the fires. She would keep the Messiah safe and sound. Without her, he can't exist and won't survive. They are two pieces of the puzzle and a unit. Now, I'm not saying I believe any of this craziness. I never have, and I've made sure to stay out of this mess as much as I can, but I feel like you and I are supposed to help each other. When we touched . . . it felt right. Deep in my core, I knew we were supposed to find each other."

A chill races down my spine and lodges itself in my gnarled up gut. The hairs on my arms are standing on end. _Phoenix_! I live in the outlying area of the Phoenix valley. Technically I did rise from the ashes like a new being, since I don't remember much of anything. And according to him, the whole world is covered in smoke and the fiery, dusty remnants.

My eyes glaze over as a horrible wave of déjà vu crashes over me and suffocates me. I know him too.

I jump up, startling him in the process.

"I have to go!" I say in a rush.

He grabs me, and I shove him off.

"I'm not this Phoenix, protector-person you think I am. I'm just _me_. There's nothing special about me, and I'm not about to become tangled up in this! I survive—nothing more," I belt out.

"We'll die without each other. I can feel it deep down in my bones. Can't you feel it?" he asks, and then he makes the mistake of shooting his hand out and touching mine.

The last thing he sees is my fist flying at his face.

**A/N:**

**No update schedule yet for this one. It's over 60 chapters, so I'll probably just post as quickly as I can fix up the chapters. So, expect it to show up in your inbox at least once a week or more. How's that for vague? When I know better, I'll tell ya. I'm posting 4 stories on this account, and 2 on the other, so I'm breaking in the juggling act as I go…**

**Chanse**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Renouncement**

_(EPOV – July 13, 2024) _

I stare at her with desperation.

My hand . . .

Her hand . . .

An electric charge ripples up my arm from her touch. She has some kind of god-like power in her that acts as a defibrillator on my heart; jump-starting what was dead for so long.

The more she tells me not to touch her, the more I have to.

She was crying in her sleep and restless, but the minute I touched her . . . she relaxed and melted right into me.

And I understood.

I _knew._

Because the feel of her on my skin did the same thing to me.

I've never felt at home in my own skin or right in the world. A reject and a loser—disappointment since day one, but having her in my arms erased that feeling. It all seemed to fit and make sense. The holes in my heart haven't mended—they're just gone, completely obliterated. And it makes absolutely no sense because she detests me, and I can't stand her either.

But the thought of her leaving sends me into a frenzy.

I want her to stay and keep arguing with me until she's worn out, sees the truth of what I've told her, and then shuts the fuck up so I can simply hold her. My arms tingle, and my hands ache to get her back in my grip the second she's away from me.

My thumb caresses the outside of her hand, and it feels natural. I don't even think about it, and before I know what's happened, her eyes turn to creases, her mouth turns into a deep dissatisfied frown, and I know what's coming.

I don't duck, even though I probably could. Maybe if she punches the shit out of me, she'll feel bad and let me hold her afterward?

_Whhaaaaammm!_

Her fist packs a very powerful punch as she makes contact with my face.

_Cruuuuuunch!_

My nose feels like it's split in two, and then a searing pain rips through the back of my head as I hit the wall behind me.

I slump to the ground, but it seems she needs more. She keeps going. Pounding relentlessly—hits to the chest, the ribs, the head. Nothing's off-limits so far, because even her knee swings at my crotch, but I manage to dodge that one.

She's on top of me, throwing punches repeatedly. After several screams of profanities from her, she slows down. I smile at the pain. My eyes can't believe how angry and alluring she is when she's beating the snot out of me. For some reason, like a sicko, I revel in the feel of her wailing on me. I deserve it. This is my penance.

_Hit me more! Harder! At least one of us will feel better . . ._

"Stop smiling!" she screams.

I wrap my arms around her tightly and roll myself on top of her. She struggles to break free, but I won't allow it. She's like a little lamb pretending to be a lion. It's amusing. I settle my chest down on top of hers and barely keep myself from rubbing noses with her, even though mine feels on fire.

"You've got a pretty good set of skills, I'll give you that," I say as the blood from the cuts she gave me drips onto her.

She spits in my face, and I laugh.

"I'll tear that grin from your fat face," she sneers.

"Keep fighting . . . it's better that way. You'll get all your frustrations out, and I'll get my kicks," I say while releasing her. "And maybe we can be friends after that."

She gets up and starts kicking the hell out of my side. I laugh harder because she doesn't have any shoes on and she's doing no damage.

"Fuck you! You and I have nothing to do with each other," she hisses.

She strolls over to her belongings. Fuming, she slips on her socks and then laces up her shoes. She stands up and starts for her bag.

"I hope you starve or get shot in the face, you stupid fucker," she murmurs under her breath.

"Wow, I've really gotten under that skin of yours." And I intend to stay there, so I start getting dressed. There's no way I'm letting her out of my sight. Prophecy be damned. I am compelled to be with this woman even if she doesn't want me around; she's stuck with me.

"I think you've broken my nose," I say with too much mirth for her liking.

I wipe at the blood with the back of my hand.

"You like that?" She turns and smiles mocking me with false sweetness. "Quit pissing me off and I'll let you keep your ears."

I grab her hand and yank her down next to me.

She tries to throw another jab my direction, and this time I duck it.

"Why are you so angry? Did you grow up hearing you were the 'protector' and decided to go vigilante?" I shove her playfully.

She punches me really hard in the ribs.

I rub the spot. I'll be bruised from that one.

"Knock that off!" I say with a laugh. "You're supposed to protect me, not end my existence by making me sore and dying of laughter." I've never had so much fun. "Now . . . tell me what's eating at you and making you the poster girl for PMS."

She doesn't answer, gets up and paces the room.

"I don't know why I'm so angry. I just _am_. This sucks . . . _you_ suck. And I like being alone. You're not leaving me _alone_," she says, sounding calm but the rage is boiling inside of that little curvy, hot frame of hers. I frown. I hate to have to break her, but it's the only way. She has to stay with me.

"I can't. I told you . . . we're together now," I explain as I finish dressing. I quickly get my socks and shoes in place, putting my duffel bag away since she clearly has no intention of sticking around at all. She's a flight risk at this point.

"Forget that . . . you don't own me. It's not like we're married or some shit like that," she says with so much hatred, she might just pull that gun on me again.

"What's wrong with marriage?"

"Nothing, if you're an idiot that thinks it means something. Marriage is a farce. Nobody stays faithful, and people divorce all the time. It's the stupidest institution around, and don't even get me started on having kids," she says with a dark and heavy laugh.

"Is there a reason you're so opinionated for somebody your age. Shouldn't you be having a mid-life crisis before becoming this jaded and cynical?"

"You have no idea how old I am," she quips.

"Do _you_?"

"No, but I'm probably older than you, since you're about as mature as a toddler. Whinier too."

"I'm thirty."

"I'm twenty eight," she instinctively responds.

I watch in frozen fear as she begins to tremble, a memory obviously taking hold of her mind.

My body instinctively comforts her; I stand and gently run my fingers up and down her arms. Empathy overwhelms me, so I bend down to peer into her eyes, making sure she's all right.

"Hey . . . you okay?" I ask softly.

She shakes her head and tears well up.

I take her into a close hold, and she breathes deeply. I'm not sure if she's sobbing or not, but she's stiff as a rod.

The more I touch her, the more awkward and tight she becomes.

"You're so tense," I observe. "Relax . . . I'll never hurt you."

"You're touching me again," she says through clenched teeth.

"Get used to it," I tell her. '_Cause you need it._

"To hell with that, I'm not your toy, I'm not your project, I'm not your girlfriend, and certainly not your bodyguard," she says, her voice escalating and cracking. She shoves me away as if repulsed by my touch.

I roll my eyes. "Let's go storm the castle," I say.

"You stay here," she orders.

"No."

"Your funeral. If you get shot in the crossfire, it's your own fault, because I won't protect you. And if you can't keep up, it's to your own detriment," she says, sliding the gun into the back of her waistband.

"Woman, I can keep up with you and your tight ass." Mostly because I like looking at it so much. My body follows where my eyes lead me.

She turns toward me; I flinch, waiting for another punch to fly in my direction.

_Criiiiiiiiiiffffffff!_

Her knee comes blasting in a direct line with my boys. Before she can hit me there, I move to the right.

Fuck. She's got a thing for trying to sterilize me.

"Owwww!" I howl, clutching my left inner thigh, and I crumple to the floor.

She looms over me, features dark and sinister.

"Asshole," she whispers to herself. "I didn't break your nose, but next time I will, and I'm not above castrating you either." With that she hops up on the counter. I watch, in excruciating pain, as she pulls herself up into the ceiling and disappears without so much as a _sorry_ or _see you later_. Obviously, she's real remorseful about maiming me. A pocket full of sympathy and laughs, that girl.

I groan as I continue to writhe on the floor.

That little girl is high though if she thinks she's gotten rid of me.

After what feels like an eternity of throbbing pain in my groin, I'm able to stumble to my feet and pull my keys out. I skip the monkey-jungle act and choose to use the doors like a civilized being.

When the hot air from outside hits me, I gasp. I look around frantically and find myself all alone, panic grips me and I run.

I run, and run, and run, until I arrive at my destination.

I pray I didn't attract attention, since I wasn't careful at all. My only object was to catch up to her and keep her safe.

I'm not an idiot. I saw the behemoth residing in that fortress house she wants to seize control of. Is she insane thinking she can breach that perimeter without me? Yes, we need that place. It has food, water, shelter, and we'd be safe there, but we needed to have a plan. She can't do it alone.

And she says _I_ have delusions of grandeur? I huff and roll my shoulders back.

My dick throbs from her attack, but I'm over it. I can't let her get caught again. They might kill her this time.

I had stayed out of his way, settled for stealing his eggs and taking some of the fresh produce from the garden. Other than that? I don't have a death-wish.

I struggle to climb the block wall since my inner thigh is still raw and has a knot in it, courtesy of one little brunette who loves to kick ass, and loves it when I touch her, even if she won't acknowledge it.

I land on the other side with a thud and am greeted instantaneously with a gun to my head and large haze eyes I've grown increasingly attracted to.

"I'm dead," I whisper, teasing. I raise my palms in the air toward her.

She kicks me lightly and mouths, "Get up!"

I roll softly to my side and stand up, going straight into protection mode. My head snaps around hyper-alert, looking for danger.

She motions for me to crawl behind the blackberry bushes. I decline.

She rolls her eyes at me, mouths "Moron!" and crouches down as she pads her way silently to the back door.

Her arms are stiff, holding form, but relaxed as she holds her gun like it's a natural extension of her hands and wrists. It's very impressive.

I watch carefully and assess at once she doesn't have a plan at all.

I grab a handful of rocks the size of my palm and start chucking them at the bedroom window furthest away from her, trying to grab the attention of the occupants inside.

She glares at me, and man, does her face turn red and shrivel into a prune. I smile and wink at her.

Her head snaps in a motion for me to hide, _now_!

I'll probably get a bullet in the ass when this is all over, but, hey, it probably means she'll take my pants off and touch my ass—I'm game.

I lob a few more rocks at the pane.

There's some commotion inside, and though I brace for them to exit the back door with guns firing, instead, we hear the front door on the other end of the house crash open and more than one set of footsteps running away.

A car starts up a few seconds later and speeds out of the driveway.

I hop the wall quickly and run inside the door they left open to the house.

Being unarmed is fine with me. I'm pretty quick, so I rely on my speed and reflexes, rather than metal and weapons.

A few seconds later, my lady friend assassin, Jane, steps silently inside behind me and shuts the door, locking it quickly.

My senses heighten once again at her proximity. Some primal need to protect her takes over: I go bounding down the hallway and charging into the bedroom I assume was the room I was pelting rocks at.

It's empty. I take a deep breath and let it go.

By the time I return to the hallway, she's already swept the remaining three bedrooms and works her way toward the basement.

I follow her, staying tight on her heels. If somebody's going to get shot, it should be me . . . _not_ her. I'd never forgive myself if that happened.

She bursts through the door and gazes around the room with her gun leading the way.

It's deserted.

I collapse to the floor in relief. My whole insides are loose and boneless.

She, however, jolts to life even more. Rocketing around like somebody put her remote on fast forward.

My head hurts just looking at her.

Her steady legs carry her back up the steps.

I groan and follow after her.

She eyes the kitchen, the pantry, the laundry room, and once it's apparent, yet again, that the place is empty, she goes straight to work on doing who knows what.

"What's the plan?" I ask.

"We've gotta secure this place. I'm gonna switch out the locks," she says in a rush.

"How do we do that? Is there a Home Depot in the basement I'm unaware of?" I drop my head to one side. Maybe if she stops and takes a breath, she'll calm the hell down.

She doesn't answer. What the fuck is this? Am I some burden; not a part of her plan?

While she's rushing around, finding tools and supplies, I dig through the fridge, which is somehow still functioning with power; the food is still cold.

I manage to put together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and practically swallow the damn thing whole. The peanut butter almost glues my mouth shut, but I don't care. It's worth it.

Not a glance is spared in my direction. She works at a dizzying pace.

I figure she needs to eat before she expires. I'm sure that gorilla will be back with reinforcements in no time.

In my haste to feed my face, I didn't see she'd left and returned with several sets of locks and keys.

Did she pull this stuff out of her Mary Poppins carpet bag or something? How's she doing this?

I thought I was supposed to be the one to turn water into wine? And here she pulls out exactly what she needs without blinking an eye.

I stare in amazement as she gets one lock off the front door, has another in place in less time than it took me to make and inhale a sandwich. She snaps it locked with the key.

After she tests it twice, she pockets that key and then goes to the back door, doing the same thing. Did I find a locksmith?

I swallow hard. Why did I think she needed protecting?

I'm so in over-my-head with this girl.

A few moments later, and I've got some food for her. I shove a sandwich at her and tell her to eat.

"You eat it. Not hungry," she barks in a clipped, unimpassioned tone.

"You need to eat," I reply.

"Can't right now. We need to get this place on lock down," she says, her eyes shifting to the windows.

"There's no way to make this place bullet proof. At some point they'll come back with guns and shoot through the windows. Why don't we get some supplies and get the hell out of here?" Time's slipping away from us. My legs jerk and bounce, my hands fidget.

"There's a way. I know it," she insists.

She shuffles over to the living room window, and again, miraculously finds a small crank she rotates over and over. Within moments, a metal plated window shield rolls out and covers the panes.

She gasps with triumph, and a tight smile spreads over her full lips.

The look of joy on her face transforms her normally serious, single minded features, into something else altogether. Goddamn. She actually looks really beautiful and very sweet.

My heart lurches, and I take her hand in mine to show my loyalty to her.

"You're amazing," I say.

"Thanks," she says, smiling.

She stays near, allowing me to touch her. The stillness surrounds us, and it intensifies in the atmosphere, until it crackles and hums between us.

I take a quick sweeping breath. "For no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except God be with her." I change the scripture to say her instead of him so it fits our situation.

"John, chapter three, verse two," she says, snapping out of her thoughts she seemed to have been trapped in.

"That's right. How did you know?"

"I told you . . . read the Bible with my family when I was little." She stares at me, but it's not with disgust, it's more like curiosity and trying to figure me out.

"You didn't say you memorized the whole thing," I say, voice rising.

"You didn't ask. I have a photographic memory, so memorization comes very easily to me. I always liked the scriptures that talked about miracles," she says and a slight blush creeps up her cheeks.

Before I can tease her about it, she's gone and is doing the same thing to the other windows. Each window has one.

She was right—_fortress_!

When she's done, she goes to the kitchen and almost eats the sandwich whole like I did.

I smirk.

"You're gonna choke," I chuckle, "Fuckin' chew your food, woman. I'm not a fan of the Heimlich maneuver."

"We're going to lose the chickens," she says, ignoring my stupid comment.

Her blank stare out the back window is a little frustrating when I'm right here, talking to her. Apparently I'm not worth responding to. My fucking luck.

"I know," I say with a shrug.

We could put them in a spare room. One of them was completely empty. We could keep them around until we run out of canned food and then slowly eat them one by one and their chicken feed. The eggs would be good for protein too."

I have a feeling she's not even talking to me. It's internal dialog, slipping through the cracks. My arms go over my chest, and I step back, trying to take her all in.

Was she a crazy bag lady in a former life that talked to herself?

"Go get them," she says as she pulls her gun on me.

**A/N:**

**Forgot to mention I changed Bella's eye color, just 'cause if I had to write, "those big chocolate eyes" one more time, I was gonna scream. Hope you'll forgive the departure. Oh, and her trying to break his nose and nuts—maybe you'll consider forgiving me for that as well. She's got a way with her, doesn't she? A lot of finesse…**

**And all the guy wants is to give her another hug and maybe molest her in her sleep. Is that so bad?**

**Evidently it is when she's got stuff to deal with like how to get them sealed inside before the mountain man with lame bondage skills returns…**

**Chanse**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Understanding Chicken**

I didn't want to survive those blasts.

I didn't want to live.

Breathing made me feel like the lowest shit imaginable.

But suddenly, with this woman staring into my eyes and demanding I do something potentially dangerous, I want nothing more than to live so I can be with her.

It doesn't matter where she takes us or what she asks me to do. If somebody has to go, then it should definitely be me.

It's a very disconcerting feeling to actually have a reason to want to exist, even if that reason wishes I was dead. I understand since it's been the overriding feeling I've let control me for so long.

"You'd get a much better reaction if you said please," I say, grinning.

"Don't hurt the chickens, or I'll hurt you," she says darkly. She flicks her gun in the direction she wants me to go.

"And how do you propose I retrieve them?" I respond. "I don't have a flute like the Pied Piper of chickendom or some shit like that."

"Grab a pillowcase and stuff them inside one at a time." She flicks her wrist again.

I follow the line of her gun, and just to piss her off, I put my hands behind my head like she can cuff me now. I fucking wish. That would be really fun.

"You seem to know this house really well," I observe, keeping my arms up. Is this all a trap? Nah, can't be. Too crazy.

"I know this _gun_ better, and it's aimed at _you_, pretty boy," she says. Oh, God, I've definitely gotten under her skin the way she has mine. It's about time. I knew there was no way she didn't feel the odd pull that connects us and makes us more than two strangers thrown at each other, staying together merely out of convenience.

I go to the hall linen closet, but when I open it, I find nothing but towels. No sheets. There're several plastic drawers full of more medicine and first aid stuff. This person really made sure to have a pharmacy at their finger tips. In the front of one of them, there are a few unusual looking thermometers.

I close the door and ask her where she thinks they keep the sheets and pillowcases. She points to the main bedroom. I step inside and find a very plain room, but these walls actually have some color on them. It's painted a rusty looking red. But there are no pictures hung, just like the rest of the house. There's nothing to identify who might own this house and live here.

I step into the closet and find a set of sheets. Who keeps their sheets in their closet?

I grab two pillowcases on the top of the pile and head out to the kitchen. The sheets match the walls. Apparently this person really liked to make sure they stuck with a theme.

I stroll through the house and act like it's no big deal a big man with a menacing gun could possibly be out there waiting for us to step a toe out the door.

Jane waves me on as she points her gun at me. I smile.

She won't shoot me. I've got something she needs—companionship. An ally. No one really wants to be alone _all _the time.

She follows cautiously behind me so she can cover me and possibly drill any devil that tries to get inside.

"You wanna bullet proof vest? There are a few of them in the basement," she asks me.

"To retrieve some chickens and their food? No thanks," I say, waving her off. It'll only take me a few minutes. And I'd probably die from sweating to death from the vest before I died of a bullet grazing me.

"Well, no wonder you feel like you need to stick with me." She walks up to me and snags the pillow cases out of my hand.

"I'll do it," I whine with my eyebrows glued to my hairline. "You can trust me to handle it."

"Can you shoot this gun at close range if that man comes back?" I roll my eyes. Does she ever respond to an actual statement or question I make? It's like she's set on autopilot and only answers her own internal musings and ponderings. "I _said_—can you shoot him to protect me?" she snaps.

"I th-think so," I say, my hands trembling at the thought of accidentally hitting her instead.

"Yes, or no? I don't want to hear 'think!'"

"Yes, I can."

"_Will _you? If it comes down to it, will you shoot that prick in his face?"

"If it means him hurting you or me, yes, absolutely," I say. And in that moment, I know it's undeniably true.

"I'm gonna go get a vest. I'll be right back. Don't touch anything while I'm gone," she bosses.

I salute, because what the hell else am I supposed to do with this drill sergeant?

"Fuck you," she says.

I bow. For somebody so low maintenance in appearance, she sure acts like she owns the whole planet.

So, why am I so aroused by her?

I have no clue. All I know is, I'm still hungry, and she's away, and since she won't touch or fuck me, I'll eat. That food in the fridge could possibly spoil, so I'm doing us a favor. I open up the fridge and go for a bagel and the cream cheese.

She returns all geared up like she's going to the front-line of battle. Two rifles are strapped over her shoulder, and they look hardcore. She's making my dick hardcore. I whistle at her.

She's got ammo shoved in her pockets, and somehow she found some combat boots that fit her. Seriously, how _does_ she find this stuff? And when can I take it off her? I like playing dress up and role play as much as the next guy.

She flips me off.

"Yes, please," say, chuckling.

"Maybe later."

"Mama's gotta kill some bad guys first," I say.

"Yeah, somethin' like that," she intones.

And fuck. She's serious. My mouth goes dry then gapes open.

She points at me. "You gonna eat all of the food before the week's out? If you can't control your appetite, I _will_ kill you instead and feed _you_ to the chickens."

I swallow.

"The food in the fridge isn't going to last forever, you know. It does have an expiration date," I remind her. _And what else am I supposed to do around here? You won't let me help._

"No, _really_?" She puffs her cheeks up and blows out a gust of air. "But did you ever think the two of us have to survive for as long as possible on the food we find here? We need to ration it and divide it appropriately. Did you ask if it was okay with me if you ate that?"

"No," I say, gulping. Suddenly this bagel tastes like glue mixed with sand and vinegar.

"No, you didn't. Selfish prick," she says. She shoves one of the guns further back behind her and continues to stare me down. When she's run out throwing mental knives, or whatever the hell it is she's doing, she says, "Whenever you're done eating the contents of the fridge." She does a grand sweeping gesture with her arm toward the door like I think I'm royalty and she's waiting on me to get my entitlement attitude out of the way so we can focus on what's really important.

"I'm ready now," I say, standing stock still. I shove the rest of the bagel in my mouth like a brat, fold my arms over my chest and lean up against the counter.

"Forget this, I don't need you to cover me. You'd probably accidentally shoot me anyway. Just stay here and do what you do best . . . eat all the food and be a waste of space." She grabs the two pillow cases, pulls her key out of her pocket, opens the back door quickly, locks it back up and she's gone.

My heart rate spikes and races like it's on hyper-drive.

_No! What if she gets hurt and I didn't do anything to stop it or to help her?_ And now I can't leave because she locked me in. The only thing I can do is open up the security metal sheath on the kitchen window that looks out into the backyard. I crank it open and she startles at the sound. She turns at lightning speed and shoots a bullet at me.

I duck down, gasping, and my ears ringing. My shoulders are practically up past my shoulders.

When the shock wears off, I stand up and my mouth hangs open; the window's undamaged. It's not even marked. Holy shit! _Bullet proof glass_? Who the hell owned this place?

Jane gives me the nastiest look I've ever seen. I watch in anxious anticipation as she shoves the chickens unceremoniously into the bags one by one. She's not very careful with them, but somehow they don't seem to be hurt. It looks like she's done this thousands of times. Is there anything she doesn't know how to do?

_Let you touch her . . ._

I frown and grip the counter.

Does she care if I'm with her at all?

Beneath all her prickles and stings, I feel like there's a lot of hurt, and she's actually very sensitive and caring. That gets to me. Digs a well right in my heart, because I'm the same way deep down inside. Anger usually masks other feelings: love, fear, vulnerability, worry, low self esteem and of course attraction.

Which one of these fits her? Maybe several of them?

I stare at her, holding my breath as she ties the two sacks together and slings it over her neck. Next she goes for the chicken feed. The bag looks heavy—fifty pounds or thereabouts. But she lugs it like it's no big deal. Damn, she's wiry and strong.

When she gets to the door, I can hear her straining to unlock it.

I wish I had some way to assist, but I'm helpless. She does it all herself.

For some unsettling reason, I fear this is setting a precedent for how our existence is going to be from now on, and my whole chest tightens at the though. My shoulders tense up.

But she really doesn't need me. Nobody ever has. I hate feeling useless and nonexistent by the people I'm closest to. At the same time, anonymity was essential. God, I'm a fuck up. No wonder she can't stand me.

The door swings open and she's red, sweaty and carrying the sack of dead-weight as she stumbles inside. I go to grab it for her, and she immediately screams at me, "Shut the door, and lock it!"

"Where's the key?" I yell back.

She continues to drag herself inside with the feed.

"In my front left jeans pocket," she says. Her head nods to the pocket like I don't know my left from my right. _Why would I? Dickhead that I am._

I reach inside her sweaty pocket, recognizing I'm brushing up against her and getting in her personal, private space, and of course getting hard over it. _Shit. Just get the damn key, Edward, and get out of her face._

"Hurry up!" she barks.

I snatch it up, and get the door secured quickly.

I turn to her and go back to trying to help her since that bag looks like it's going to give her a hernia or a slipped disc.

"Get the window!" she squawks.

"Are you kidding me? It's freaking bullet proof. I wanna help you!" I say.

"I don't care if it's bullet proof. Quit trying to get us killed, and do what I say." Her eyes blaze at me like she's definitely plotting my imminent death.

I head over to the window and crank the metal plate back in place. The room would be really dark, even though it's midmorning, if it wasn't for the skylights embedded in the ceiling. I tip my head back and my head buzzes.

The owner of this house really planned for this day when there would be no electricity. They must have realized they'd have no way to see if they had to go into lock down mode, so they put windows in the roof. I wonder idly how safe skylights are. Could they be removed so somebody could enter through that way?

She releases straining grunts as she corners into the empty bedroom and a loud thunk echoes through the hallway, signaling she's set down the chicken feed.

Keeping my distance, I find a spot in the hallway where I can watch her. I'm sure she thinks I'm doing it for amusement, but honestly, I really do wish she'd let me help. If she has to put up with me, I want to contribute somehow.

She slips the chickens out of the pillow cases quickly, bolts for the door and snaps it shut behind her.

When she's all done, she doesn't even acknowledge me. She goes about getting their water can from the backyard. After she has it, she locks the house back up, pushes the can inside their room, and re-shuts the door with zeal. It's fairly obvious she's not very fond of, maybe even a little freaked out by, chickens. The feeling's mutual.

She heads down to the basement afterward.

Unsure of what else I'm supposed to do, I follow her and sit in a conspicuous corner so I can study her.

She methodically pulls out a pad of paper and a pen on one of the shelves. It appears there's something written on it.

"What's that?" I ask, hesitant, my voice shaking. Who knows if this will be the question that finally makes her boil over and snap my neck.

"Sorry I shot at you. I thought you were that guy," she says without looking at me.

Even though it's one of the poorest apologies I've ever heard, it means a lot to me. I doubt she ever apologizes to anybody for anything she does. My chest warms.

"It's okay. I scared you, and I shouldn't have done that. I was worried about you and didn't know how to help since you locked me in," I say, fading out at the end.

"I didn't want your help. I wanted you _safe_," she says, turning with the pad of paper and staring at the shelves of supplies. Is she taking stock of the inventory? "For some stupid-ass reason, I feel protective of you." She grinds her teeth.

Why is this all so confusing? I hate her, but I can't be away from her. She wants me dead, yet feels compelled to protect me.

I stretch my neck; my head's hurting. There're no answers. Only questions, piling up higher than the dead body count outside in the surrounding cities.

I stand up and hover since she probably won't explain what she's doing.

As I loom over her shoulder, I can see it's a checklist of the items in the room.

The handwriting on it is nice; a feminine script.

She takes the pen in her hand and writes in a blank spot at the bottom of the page. Her brow furrows in concentration. What's got her so concerned?

I look at her handwriting and the realization hits me . . . My eyes flash wide. It's exactly identical to the writing on the page.

"What the . . .?" I rasp.

She shakes her head in disbelief.

"Jacob Black," she whispers like it means something.

A fucking bucket of ice must've dropped on my head, because I'm shaking, I'm cold, and numb in certain areas like my heart. "Do you know him? Are you having some flashbacks of memories? Did he hurt you?"

"No . . . but I think this is my house."

I take a step back. "Just because that's your handwriting, doesn't mean this is your place."

She puts the pad down, walks over to the wall, pushes a shelf forward that's on wheels, and reveals a giant safe embedded in the wall.

"How did you know that was there?" I squeak.

"Watch this," she says, sounding in awe. There is a very technical safety pad; she punches in a bunch of numbers and presses her thumb to a portion at the top.

The safe's door unlatches with a click and she tells me without looking inside of it, "It's more weapons, passports and information. I think Jacob Black is in there."

I run over and slam it shut.

"You don't have to do this," I tell her, my heart hammering like crazy.

"Don't you want to know who I am, and why I'm so screwed up?" she asks, her entire body stiff and slightly trembling.

"It doesn't matter who you are. We're here, we survived, and the past doesn't make a difference," I say, using my most persuasive tone.

"Why don't you want me to know who I am? Why I'm like this?" she asks, her tone accusatory.

"Because knowing _that,_ isn't going to help you," I tell her. My nerves are pushed to an extreme that's almost debilitating. I just know there's going to be more information in there about the prophecies and about me.

I rest a palm against the wall to prop me up.

If this _is_ her home and she's this prepared in this house, then she would have done the rest of her homework and known what was to come.

She shifts her hips from side to side.

"Please, Jane, don't open it."

"I have to," she says quietly and begins cracking the safe back open.

Before she can react, I grab one of the guns she set down when she entered the room, and I zero it right in on her back. Lucky me, this one has a laser sight. No skill involved . . .

"Stop. Don't open it or I'll shoot," I warn.

She turns toward me ever so slowly.

"Move away from it," I tell her, my teeth clicking together as my hands quake.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't think you're going to like what you find out about yourself . . . and possibly about me as well." I motion for her to walk up the stairs as I keep the gun trained on her.

I kick the other gun out of her path so she can't grab it.

As soon as she's up the stairs, I lock the basement door and direct her to the living room. I should've grabbed the cuffs too.

"Now what, genius?" she asks as she settles herself down on the couch in the living room.

"Now, we're going to have a little chat. You're going to answer my questions and listen to what I have to say before this gets anymore out of hand."

"Jacob Black," she whispers again as her eyes go glassy. She looks like she may pass out.

I take a deep breath. I may need to find out who this guy is before she does.

**A/N:**

**Thanks for sticking with me so far. I appreciate it since I know this story is fairly out there and some people might consider it sacrilegious based on its content. No offense is meant; it's merely a story that intrigues my brain, nothing more. It's not meant as a commentary on society or on religious sects. I apologize if it feels I'm tromping all over spiritual beliefs. Nothing could be further from the truth. I appreciate and respect all denominations, beliefs and religions. But I don't mind exploring new ideas through fiction and imagination. I think it's healthy and normal to question spiritual beliefs at all different intervals of life to keep ones soul sharp and on point in order to keep a clear conscience.**

**Thanks again for being open minded and giving this story a chance.**

**See why my penname makes sense? This is the site where I post my risky stories.**

**Chanse**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Cold Start**

_BPOV_

I feel like an engine having trouble turning over on a cold day in a rusty old pickup truck. My brain keeps trying to start and flip over my memories, but it won't work.

Jacob Black—on the tip of my tongue and on the edge of my brain, ripping it to shreds until I feel insanity is a step away.

Edward with a gun is only scary because he definitely has never held one before. An inexperienced person with a weapon can be more dangerous than somebody who knows what they're doing. Instead of shooting me in the thigh to stop me, he could rip my head off, and then load my whole body up with bullets without even realizing he accidentally pulled the trigger.

"Put the gun down and we'll do whatever you want," I tell him calmly.

"You promise you won't bolt?"

"Yes," I say, my tone curt. _Have I done anything at all to not have his loyalty?_

"First of all, thank you for bringing me here to this house and helping me out. I really do appreciate it, and I do want to help and contribute. I'm not here to mooch off you and be a burden. I think we can help each other. I can help you figure out who Jacob Black is, and eventually we can maybe go looking for him and find out where he is. Until then, I think we need to figure out how to get along better. I like you, I really do, but when you come at me guns blazing, my natural reaction is to fight back. If you want that to stop, then you need to calm down," he says.

"I'll consider it," I reply.

"Thank you. Now, I want to know something about you before I tell you what I think is down in that safe. Did you recognize the guy that had you here as a prisoner?"

"I'm not sure. I think I knew him. He certainly knew me," I answer, wading through my mind to see if I can find memories of him. There's nothing there to help me.

"That's not the same thing. People know who I am and come up to me all the time. It's very confusing when I feel like I should know them too. But after a while I realized even if I did know them, it didn't matter."

I give him a blank expression. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I mean, even if I knew them at one point, I wasn't going to remember them if they weren't important. So if you don't remember him, then he probably wasn't important to you until he kidnapped you."

_You are making me crazy. I'm getting a headache._

"I didn't say he kidnapped me," I bicker.

"Call it whatever you want. I think we need to figure out who this guy is before we worry about who Jacob Black is and where he's hiding." His jaw flexes, his eyes bore into mine. He stands up a little straighter and his chest pushes forward as he breathes hard after his little tirade.

_Oh God, why am I wet? Is he turning me on? _

_Stop staring. _

I nod my head stupidly in agreement.

He smiles and my knees feel slightly weak.

He sucks in a quick intake of breath, pauses and then tells me, "I agree. I think this _is_ your house, and I think one of the things down there in the safe is the Azar Bible."

"So?"

"_So_ . . . in that Bible are the prophecies, and some of them you might not want to hear," he says, sounding worried.

"Why?"

He smiles softly at me.

"Oh forget it! I'm not going to go into all of the details, but I'll tell you the stuff that involves you and me. You don't have to believe any of it," he says.

_Okaaay . . . Why on earth would I believe any of it? I'm not that gullible._

I motion with my hand for him to get a move on and be out with it already.

"Azar predicted this doomsday scenario. He said there would be an epidemic disease that would break and people would panic. Countries turning on each other, and eventually bombs would drop. All of the major cities in the US would be obliterated and ninety-five percent of the population would perish. He likened it to Noah's flood that virtually wiped everybody out. Then he of course depicted the 'Savior,' and I've already told you about that." He shifts around uncomfortably. "I've told you that hypothetically you might be the 'protector?'"

I nod. Oh God, he's so adorable when he's nervous. I push my legs together to quell the throbbing down there.

I don't like it. Averting my eyes, I try not to think about how he makes me feel. _It's all that damn touching, you stupid bitch. Stop allowing it. Of course you're wet._

"Well . . . the protector has a bigger role than to keep me, I mean the Messiah, safe. She becomes his wife and her name is . . . Mary."

A gasp escapes me. He was calling me that based on my shoes. Or at least it was the reason he gave me for the nickname.

_Coincidence?_

Chills run up and down my spine. Horror crosses my face.

_Wife? _

_Do you want me to be your wife?_

_Could I . . . ?_

"Yeah . . . it's a lot to think about. Mary becomes like Eve, and essentially has children with him. They begin to repopulate the whole decrepit planet."

My head spins. I do my best to look indifferent, though inside I'm crumpling.

I can't do any of those things. I'm not loving, I'm not a motherly type. And I sure don't want any fucking drooling, sniveling kids.

"That's not all . . . I . . .I mean, he winds up dying, sacrificing himself for her. She leads the people and keeps them all united. She rules for one-hundred years until she raises up the next prophet to be the subsequent ruler."

Bile gags me at back of my throat. I place a hand over my stomach and fight off the chills. I blink slowly, purposefully.

"Thank you for telling me," I say, sounding calm.

"You're welcome. I told you basics, mind you. There's a lot more to it than that. It also says Mary has names of confusion. I don't know what that means though."

I have no idea either, but it doesn't sound good. The babies part sounds worse though.

"Can I open the safe now?" I ask.

"Yes, but please don't make me leave if you find out stuff you don't like. I'm no different than the guy you've gotten to know. There's nothing false about me; at least, not with you. I haven't pretended to be somebody I'm not. In the outside world I've tried to cover up my identity and be somebody else, but in your presence I haven't," he says, his eyes so pure and pleading for some understanding.

My heart melts, and I pull in a stuttering breath.

"Leave the gun up here," I say, still a little reluctant to let him have one in his presence.

I go ahead and show him a portion of trust by leading the way down the stairs. It's not much, but it's something so he knows we have some form of a relationship.

The thought of being anything to him more than an accidental person he ran into disturbs me. Probably because I already feel too hooked to him. Addiction to a person can be really bad, especially when it involves me, survival and a gun.

Cue-ball takes the pad of paper with the inventory on it and reads it as I go back to opening the secrets in the vault. He plops himself down in a corner where he can still see what I pull out of the hole in the wall.

I open it with ease and glance over at him to see if he's going to go berserk again. He doesn't. Even though he appears calm, I know better. That man is about ready to explode if he hears or sees anything he doesn't like.

His temperament is all over the place; he's a loose cannon, completely unpredictable and to tell the truth, it kind of excites me. I've judged him too harshly based on his appearance and a few foolish mistakes he's made. If I didn't like him so much I could have probably forgiven him his misdeeds, but since I feel comfortable with him—never a good sign—I have to keep him at a distance.

I slide a folder out of the vault first. It's not very thick, maybe the size of an inch binder with all sorts of papers shoved into it.

I leave the safe open and slide down the floor until my backside is flush with the cool concrete. I think I may sleep down here tonight since the temperature is much more tolerable than it is in the rest of the house.

As I open the book, Mr. Clean comes over and squats next to me without asking for permission. I give him a little annoyed glance, which seems to make him laugh. So I nudge him so he'll fall onto his ass. He laughs and then sidles up to me.

Why is touching me so easy for him? It's unnerving as hell.

My skin tingles each time he even gets a few inches near it.

I blink and run my hand over the page. We study what appears to be some sort of quasi-journal-photo album. This is exactly what I need. My whole insides spark to life and a smile pulls at my lips.

The first page shows pictures of my family. Apparently my dad's name was Charlie, and he was in the armed forces when I was growing up. Then later he became a police chief of some little crappy town called Forks.

I snort at that stupid name. Who names a town after cutlery? Serrated Knife would have been a better name by far. Stupid Sporks! Can't believe we lived somewhere so ridiculous.

My mom's name was Renee, and she looks a lot like me. Similar build, except I'm leaner, more muscular and my hair is darker, straighter than hers was.

Just when I start to wonder what happened to them, at the bottom of the page I see a newspaper clipping about a horrible car crash.

Telly Savalas next to me starts reading it out loud: "Three passengers were in the vehicle. The driver, Charles Swan, fell asleep at the wheel and accidentally swerved into the opposing lanes, heading into oncoming traffic. They hit a '69 Chevy, totaling the Swan's Toyota Carolla. Only one passenger survived because they were restrained with a seat belt. Daughter, Isabella Swan, 16 years old, was air-evacuated to Phoenix Children's Hospital with some rather sustainable injuries. She broke her right fibula and will have several surgeries to insert pins in her leg. Her mother, Renee Swan, and father, Charles Swan, were pronounced dead on the scene of the accident. Isabella has no living relatives and has been awarded custody of the state until she reaches the age of 18."

Edward's breathing shallows and evens out. Then his eyes flash over to me to gauge my reaction.

I have none. What's there to do or say? They're dead, I'm not. Move on.

I sigh and turn the page, ignoring his shocked expression. If I look at him, it all might come crashing down, and I refuse to cry. I refuse to hug him and tell him how utterly alone and miserable I am, because, fuck—I'm a survivor. It looks like I always have been.

My ears sting with unshed tears. I keep reading so I can distract myself from the possible impending pain.

This page has various pictures of foster homes I lived in and people I came in contact with. I settled with another family who was in the armed forces. It appears I took a liking to the father with a military crew cut and liked wearing camouflage a lot. There are pictures of him showing me how to shoot guns in a backyard of sorts. I don't look happy in the pictures but I look like I'm in my own element and very comfortable with this lifestyle.

Did any of these people want me at all?

"Good Lord," he groans while he looks at a picture of me in a bikini top and fatigues, skinning a wild boar. I'm covered in blood and have a look of lust in my eyes as I carved that beast.

Hmmm . . . looks like I've hunted wildlife in Arizona more than once . . . The next picture is of me holding up a ton of fish I caught. This time it's more of a close up; I'm clad in only a bikini and it shows my body covered in scars. Some of them are hard to decipher. I ignore it. Scars mean nothing to me.

Baldy is gasping in fright as he looks at my mangled body. A lump settles in my stomach.

I quickly scan the page for names like Jacob Black to pop out at me so I can turn the page quicker.

I pretend his shocked reactions don't bother me. But then, why would they? I don't know this asshole. Why do I care if he's seeing how beat up and abused I've been my entire life?

I inch away from him.

Under the next photo is one of me smoking cigarettes with this military father-figure and there are the words, _My mentor, my teacher: Carlisle,_ written in black script.

Edward reacts in a more pronounced way with each picture, and my stomach feels like he's chucking darts at it, sticking them every time. With each page turn, it elicits more groans and gasps from him, even a few choking curses as he sees how grisly my past is and how rough I've lived.

I close my eyes at one point to keep from breaking down.

My mind blocks him out, humming a tune I don't even recognized. I have to know more about who I am, but fuck, I really wish he'd leave and let me explore this book on my own.

My back stiffens with each passing second, and my arms brace myself for having to beat the shit out of him so he'll at least know to keep away from me.

I exhale in relief as I get closer to the back of the book.

Almost done. There are pictures of my first apartment: a cruder version of this house. Gun racks on the walls all over the place, some rough furniture, no pictures on the walls and a few shirtless guys sitting around a table assembling pipe bombs. They all look Native American. I scan the faces to see if any of them look like that mysterious laminated picture of Jacob Black I had in my backpack. I don't spot him, so I keep going.

I finally find something that makes _me_ gasp. A diploma from some high school called Mountain View. Wow, I got a typical education. It surprises me I cared about anything as mundane as school. Soon after that shock, I find a picture of me in ROTC. It's not nearly as shocking.

A journal entry follows it up, stating I tried to enlist in the army but Congress had recently passed a law that no longer allowed females to enroll in any of the armed forces. It was deemed unethical by our country for women to fight.

"That's bullshit!" I say.

Edward thinks I need a hug or something because his hand goes to pat my thigh. I grab his fist and squeeze until he removes it.

"What part of don't touch me aren't you getting? Next time I'll break your hand," I hiss menacingly. Because if he touches me again, _I'll_ be the one to break. And I can't. I just can't . . .

"Under that tough as nails exterior lays a heart," he says, looking me in the eyes.

"A heart that beats _only_ to keep me alive," I swallow, "with no need for touch or companionship, so get that through your thick skull."

"Everybody needs touch. You're not a damn Terminator," he says like I'm being unreasonable.

"_I_ don't. And if I do, I'll remedy the situation. Until then, act like I've got the black plague and keep your distance," I say, scooting away from him.

I flip the next page over and there are few more journal entries about people that taught me various survival skills. There are more pictures of me rappelling, spelunking, backpacking the Grand Canyon, bungee jumping, and all sorts of other thrill seeking activities. I'd attended some survivalist retreat each summer in Colorado Springs.

On the final page there's a picture of the man sitting next to me.

All it says underneath it is _Find him,_ and no explanation.

Edward stops breathing and is stiff as a statue.

I slam the book shut. It was slightly helpful but not what I was looking for. I still don't know who Jacob Black is. It's killing my brain trying to remember him. Did I know him? I think I probably did. He seems really important.

"You found me, mission accomplished," he says smugly.

_He thinks this is funny?_

"Something amusing?" I ask. Did he find my journal comical? Another sting from one of his darts lands in my chest, pricking my heart.

"No, it's just that you can't deny now we're supposed to do this together," he says with a smirk plastered across his stupid face.

"I was probably high and infatuated with your notoriety," I say with a shrug.

"I doubt it. You don't seem like the type," he says.

"I'm sure you know all about groupies, and I'm sure you've slept with a few of them along the way." I turn my head away. The thought of him being seductive with some blonde bimbos with short, tight skirts and big chests, makes my head scream in protest. I want to hunt them down and rip their hair one strand at a time, then strangle them with it.

"I didn't allow groupies anywhere near me and I didn't . . ." He stops mid-sentence.

I turn back to him and quirk an eyebrow at him, but I'm not sure I want to hear about his escapades, so I don't bother to ask.

It's too nerve racking to be sitting this close to him as it is.

I stand up and push the folder back into the safe, finger a really sweet looking bow and some arrows tucked inside it, and pull out a wad of cash.

"I guess this is useless now." I push the money back inside and pull out some fake IDs and passports. There are other official documents like my birth certificate, my parents' death certificates, a document from the state that releases me as their ward and a few other meaningless pieces of paper. There's another laminated picture of Jacob that's an exact copy of the one in the backpack.

There is one final clue that I pull out of the safe.

Edward stands up and starts reading over my shoulder again: "Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven; And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground. But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt. And Abraham gat up early in the morning to the place where he stood before the Lord: And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of the furnace. And it came to pass, when God destroyed the cities of the plain, that God remembered Abraham, and sent Lot out of the midst of the overthrow, when he overthrew the cities in the which Lot dwelt. Genesis 19: 24 through 29."

"Time of salt," I say, taking it all in.

"Time of _salt_?"

"We can't look back. That's why Lot's wife was turned to a pillar of salt. All we can do is look to the future and rebuild our lives," I say, flat, almost feeling dead inside when I haven't even seen the devastation yet with my own eyes. I can imagine how burnt and horrific it is. And if Edward joined those bodies, I'd . . . Fuck! I clamp my jaw shut and keep my eyes open, stop blinking so the wateriness will subside.

"Salt that loses its flavor is useless. There's no flavor left in the world; it's all crumbled to ash. All we have is each other and we can make living worth it. We have to stop fighting, Isabella," he says, eyes imploring.

It's the first time he's used my real name now that we know what it is, and it stops my heart. My lungs follow suit. I vibrate inside, almost waiting for his command.

He stares at me, and exhales in my face.

My heart jolts.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Don't call me that," I bristle at him.

"What do you want me to call you?"

It tumbles off my tongue without any thought. "Bella."

"_Bella_ . . ." he says softly, with a gruff tone that makes me really uncomfortable. So uncomfortable I'm squirming.

And wet again.

He smiles at me and something strange happens . . . I blush and smile back.

_Damn hormones and sappy stories! Fuck this girly shit!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Nuts and Berries**

_EPOV_

"Bella . . ." I say softly, and something happens. Her shoulders relax, her pupils dilate slightly, and her breath catches in her throat.

What the fuck was that all about? Her _name_? I'm going to call her by her first name all the time if this is how she's going to react.

I smile at her. She actually smiles back, and what the hell?Is she _blushing_?

She _is,_ and can't seem to keep direct eye contact.

My chest floods with warmth.

She shifts away from me.

"Bella?" I ask, trying not to burst into a grin at her priceless, previous reaction.

"_Edward_?" she mimics, sounding annoyed I'm already abusing this new-found power. One of her eyebrows bounces up.

She walks toward the hallway, and I follow behind her, looming and nipping at her heels.

"What are the plans for this afternoon? Because I'm beat. I wanna crash on the bed in the master bedroom, but I wanted to make sure you didn't need me for something first." I'm still smirking over our encounter and how her name rolling off my lips changed her expression momentarily.

"Do whatever you like. I'm not your babysitter," she says, indifferent.

"Oh, so you don't care if I do nasty things in your bed and sleep with my boots on?"

"Keep it on your side of the bed, and I won't care," she says.

Really? It's that simple?

No way! This is some sort of test.

"Got any porn?" I tease. Shoulda brought my stash instead of leaving it back at the school.

"I don't know. Probably, but it might be too hardcore for you and your soft-porn eyes. Look under the bed, that's where most pervs keep it." She walks into the last bedroom, across from ours—yeah, _ours, 'cause we're gonna share it—_and she locks the door.

"I guess that means I'm not invited." I shrug.

Like I give a fuck at this point? I'm too exhausted to care. She was flailing around all last night; the crying and moaning from her wasn't helping either. I probably got about three hours of sleep total. And then the stress has topped it all off nicely.

I yawn and slump while I scratch my balls. My stomach growls.

"Shut up," I tell my body. It doesn't get to be hungry for anything at all. Especially not her.

My feet shuffle as I go downstairs, grab one of the automatic weapons she had out back with her, and bring it back up to the bedroom with me after loading an ammo clip. Most likely the big guy that was in this house before we took over will be back at some point, but if he needs reinforcements, that's gonna take time.

Once inside the bedroom, I crouch down to check for a porn stash under the bed.

Nothing.

I frown and plop onto the edge of the bed.

Shit. Who doesn't like porn? Why wouldn't she have some lying about?

A whiny groan drifts out of my chest. I totally wanted to see what kind of a freak Bella is.

There's no way a woman that kicks ass like she does, isn't into some seriously kinky shit.

I smile as I imagine her cuffing some dude's ankles to chains, hanging from the ceiling and then her getting herself off, leaving him painfully erect and pissed off.

I glance down at my dick. Hard again.

"Surprise, surprise," I say to myself.

I push the gun under the bed and bite my tongue to keep from laughing when I realize she has a dust ruffle. She can beat my ass senseless, shoot at me, the girl barely eats anything because she's so focused on our survival, but somewhere in her taking time to build this fortress, she bought a dust ruffle. Granted it's not frilly, lacy or pink, but still, what the hell?

I chuckle and lie down.

A dust ruffle for the bastard she's gonna eat alive in her bed?

Fuck! I hope it's me next.

Images of her in pink make me laugh louder. Still a girly-girl deep down. Every woman wants romance and this is the second hint I've had from her today. She wants me to say her name and seduce her on her comfy bed with a dust ruffle._Women!_

I kick my dusty boots off then lob them into her closet. Oddly, when I peek inside, there's male clothing hanging on one side. Maybe these clothes'll fit me?

I smell like shit, and the only clothes I have are these dirty ones I'm wearing.

No wonder she's avoiding me. BO's never attractive.

I strip down to my boxers, pull off my sweaty socks and climb under the covers, cringing. Is she gonna smack my teeth out of my head for putting my stink on the bed?

I glance at the other side of the mattress. She didn't say which side to take, so I act like a canine and sniff the pillows to see which one smells more like her.

I let out a throaty chuckle, realizing a few things about her from this simple act.

She likes to sleep on the left; it smells fruity like her. Like a cross between lavender, lemon and the faint sweetness of pineapple. It's a really nice combination.

I inhale once more. Shit, that's good.

When I'm done acting like a psycho, almost licking her area, I take the right pillow and consider again why she sleeps on the left. Typical chick—it's the side closest to the bathroom.

So much has happened today, my head's buzzing, having a hard time shutting down. The only way I know how to calm down is to use some deep abdominal breathing and to sing or hum. I go with humming so I don't disturb her from whatever she's doing behind that closed door.

My mind drifts back to one of the few times I felt like my parents approved of me.

Eyes closed, head sinking into the pillow, I let the memory wash over me . . .

_I'm sitting in a vast concert hall, and the twerp before me has played an incredibly difficult piece._

_I scowl at him with envy . . . My chosen piece of music isn't quite as progressive as his, but it's still fairly advanced for a kid my age. Ten-year-olds aren't supposed to be capable of playing Liszt. That kid that was just before me is at least thirteen-years-old._

_I take my seat at the bench—still warm from his fat butt—and settle in by stretching lightly and rolling my shoulders._

_Unlike my former competitor, I don't have sheet music. It's all memorized._

_I exhale and sink into the bench, staring at the keys before me._

_The music is in my blood, and I can pick stuff up on the piano fairly easily if I care to._

_I glance over at Mom in the audience. She smiles like she's proud of me, even though most of the time I drive her nuts, since I don't usually care to learn new songs, and she pushes me to do more all the time._

_She waves. I hunch my shoulders and turn back to the piano._

_I press my hands to the keys, and the music rings out through the hall. _

_For the most part, I ignore the audience, until I hear soft sobs coming from my right. I peer over and Mom's beaming at me, tears trickling down her cheeks._

_She leans into the person sitting next to her, points at me, and says something about me being her son._

_A sense of pride fills me up; my heart soars._

_I've done right by her. This is the best day of my life!_

Within minutes of reliving that moment, I'm wiped. I completely pass out across Bella's queen sized bed.

.

.

.

My eyes slide open, my brain's foggy, and the room's pitch black. The door is closed shut.

Was I snoring? As far as I'm aware, I don't do that.

I wipe my hands down my face and stretch. How long was I out?

I stumble to the door a few seconds later, still half undressed. I'm groggy as hell, and it's so fucking hot, clothes are a shitty option.

Did I make it to hell? Is it supposed to be this stifling in here?

I open the door and head out into the hallway as I rub my eyes. There are lights on in the kitchen.

When I wander in there to look for some food, Bella's cooking.

What the hell?

"How do we have electricity?" I ask, my brow furrowing.

Her back is turned to me, and she startles, jumping from my voice.

"_Jesus_, why don't you punch me in the back of the head?" she gripes, glaring over her shoulder.

"Sorry . . . I figured with your training, you have senses like some super-spy or something." I walk closer to see what smells so good.

"I don't. Flesh and blood, just a normal human woman," she says, continuing to stir the food.

There's a second pot with water on the boil.

"Whatcha cookin'?" I ask in a taunting tone.

"Nothing fabulous. I'm pretty tired, so I went with easy. It's taco soup. Set the table and we can eat," she says.

Set the table? I have no idea where her dishes are . . .

I walk around her and start opening and shutting cupboards. She offers no help and doesn't tell me if I'm getting close in regards to finding bowls.

My back tenses, and heats as I start getting agitated.

Must I always look like an ass around her?

I take a deep breath and keep searching.

Of course, the last place I look is where they are. I grab two bowls, procure two spoons and set them down at a table I hadn't noticed before now. It's kind of tucked over in a corner. I slide it away from the wall along with two of the chairs.

She brings over a simple bamboo trivet and sets the soup down. It smells delicious; my stomach snarls at me and almost leaps from my throat.

Fuck. _Hot_ food? How long has it been?

Forever . . .

And meat? Haven't had any in days, with the exception of the piece of jerky she gave me yesterday.

My mouth waters, and my eyes are almost as big as my stomach.

When she dishes some out for me, my eyes almost water, and I get choked up.

_Shit. Don't cry, asshole. She'll shove the spoon down your throat and call you a pussy._

"Do you want some tortilla chips with yours?" she asks me casually, like it's a normal everyday occurrence to have it on hand even though the world is a ball of ashes.

"_Chips_? Oh yeah!" I almost yell.

"I've got some cheese too if you want some," she offers, chuckling.

"I love cheese." I grunt.

She smiles and gets up to retrieve it.

The second she throws some cheese at me, my hands start to shake. I feel like I haven't eaten in years, and I'm being fed a Thanksgiving feast!

I grab a handful and toss it sloppily into my bowl. She pushes some chips toward me after she grabs a large handful for herself.

I suck in a tight gust of air, because fuck if I'm gonna waste energy with my mouth breathing for the next five minutes. I'll be too busy inhaling this food down.

She crumbles the chips into her bowl, and I've already eaten almost all of the contents of mine before I could follow suit.

"Damn, this soup is incredible," I growl, sniffing. "It tastes as amazing as it smells."

"Glad you like it, Edward," she says, the hint of a blush coming on.

"Wow, woman, you can cook. Glad I hooked up with you." I go in for a second helping.

"Slow down . . . you're gonna hurt yourself," she tells me, laughing.

She watches me while I'm gorging myself.

"Do I look like I care? I've been eating almost nothing," I say while chewing my food.

"What _have_ you been eating?" she asks, her bites and portions controlled.

"Well, I found your house about two weeks ago, and ever since then I've been stealing your grapefruit and eating some of the cucumbers. Other than that, I sometimes crack open a can of beans at the school. They were the only thing left behind in the kitchen." I take another huge bite, and I'm starting to feel overly full, bloated even. "The beans were okay, but I didn't want to waste them if I didn't have to, so I figured I should eat produce until it's gone. I'm so sick of grapefruit."

"I'm surprised the fruit and vegetables weren't all burned and dried up in this heat," she says. She looks past me like she's lost in thought.

"Nope, they were very juicy."

"The reason those grapefruit are still on that tree is because I can't stand them," she says, wrinkling her nose a little.

It's adorable, the faces she makes when she lets her guard slip for a second. I smile.

"Why do you have a grapefruit tree if you don't like them?" I ask.

"I don't remember." She takes a few more bites before she starts to stiffen like something's bothering her.

"Spit it out. What'd I do now that has you upset?" I ask.

"Nothing. I found some interesting things while you were sleeping though. In the office there's a ton of information on this house, and how it's set up. In order to maximize our materials, we'll have to be careful about how we do things. For instance, we're on well water, and there are cisterns, but I want us to be judicious with our water usage since we're in the desert. We should only shower three times and wash our clothes once during the week, so we'll need to combine our dirty laundry together. We should keep our showers short if we can. And since we're on well water, I'm going to start boiling our water we drink since it's most likely contaminated. I don't want us to run through all of our bottled waters in the basement. Those should be for when we have to leave the house or emergencies only."

I nod. _Showers_?

I lean my head down and sniff at my pit. God, I smell like rotting meat.

And now I'm living in Shangri-la. I never expected to bathe at all.

My gut tightens at the thought of us showering together—to conserve water of course.

I harden and my breath catches.

"We're on solar power, and I have this generator, but it should also only be used in dire emergency. I've locked up the freezer," she says. She points at one of two fridges. "Let's keep the doors closed on both of them as much as we can to avoid using too much energy. I know we live in the land of the sun, but still . . . never can be too careful. If you need something out of the freezer, tell me and I'll get it for you since I have the only key and I've hidden it."

"Of course."

"If you open something that's vacuum sealed, tell me and I'll reseal it when you're done. We need to keep our snacking reasonable. How about three snacks, and we only have breakfast and dinner? I have a two week rotation menu planned for a whole year. So if I make some meal you don't like, I don't want to hear about it, because you'll be eating it twice a month. Got it?" She goes rigid again.

"Well, if you're going to be cooking stuff like this meal, then I'll be kissing your feet, not complaining." I wink at her and consider licking my entire bowl clean.

She giggles for a moment and then starts lecturing me about being careful with our toiletries as well. "We've got one hundred and eighty rolls of toilet paper. I want us to only use one per week. If we do that, we'll have three years' worth."

"Wow, you're so organized." I rub my head.

"I expect you to go easy on the soap too. There're thirty six bars; I want us to only go through one per month. That should also last us three years." She stares at my bald head. Her eyes narrow. "Thankfully you don't have hair," she blurts and then bites her lip, looking guilty over it.

I chuckle. "It's going to grow back, you know. Unless you have razors in your supply," I tell her, hoping she miraculously has some. Where's that Mary Poppin's bag she pulled the new locks for the doors out of?

"Yes, I do and you're welcome to use 'em. I have the same amount of those as soap bars and expect them to go through the same time frame and usage." She pauses and taps her index finger on the table. "We'll have to share each one, though." A very slight blush creeps up her throat and her ears turn a light pink. She clears her throat. "Once the soap and shampoo runs out, I'll make some out of soap nuts."

"What the hell is a soap nut?" My eyes go wide.

"They're also called soap berries," she replies.

"What. The. Hairy. Fuck. Is. A. Soap nut-berry?" My voice goes up in volume.

"They're mukorossi nuts, and they naturally clean stuff. They can be reused over and over again; they're natural so I use the grey-water on the plants outside. There's a system tied to the dishwasher and the washing machine. We're on a septic tank so we have to be careful about what we put in the toilet," she explains.

"I'm not the one with a uterus on a monthly cycle, Bella," I tell her like she's being ridiculous now. "What am I going to flush down the toilet besides number one and number two? I'd think you'd praise me for being potty trained. Shit, woman." I roll my eyes.

She giggles again and responds with, "I don't _knooow_. You're about as moody as any woman I've ever met." Her grin makes my heart clench. The mischievous glint in her eye pulls me in, so I lean toward her. "And whether or not you're potty trained remains to be seen." Her head bobbles and she purses her lips, fighting off a big smile.

I lean back into my chair, one hand settled on the table and smile like a fool. _Go ahead, make fun of me. I don't give a fuck, not if it means you're happy._

God, she's hot.

"You said you wanted to help, right?" she asks, changing the subject.

"Yes. What did you have in mind?"

"Chicken duty. I hate those nasty birds. They scare me. I figured you could go in every day, clean out the room and feed and water them. When I went back out and retrieved the water can and put it in there with them, they were trying to peck at my feet. They were flying at me too; the bastards were lucky I didn't shoot 'em." She watches me go in for one more bowl of soup. "They freak me out."

My eyes get big. I'm scared of birds too. Great . . . Fantastic!

"And where am I supposed to put their nasty bird shit?" I ask.

"There's a compost pile outside. Eventually we'll put it there. Until we know we're safe to be wandering outside the house, I was thinking we could put it in a garbage can with a tight lid. I put it in the room, in the closet. There's a snow shovel in the room as well that I grabbed from the shed." She gives me a pleading, soft gaze, her shoulders hunched up.

Aw hell . . . How can I say no when she's asking so nice and looking at me like this?

"Fine. I'll do it." I pause. "Any master bedroom rules I should know about since you're laying down the law?" I ask, waggling my eyebrows at her in a flirty, silly way.

"Nope. You can have the bed. I dragged a cot from the office down to the cellar. I'm gonna sleep down there. It's much cooler in that space. I want to turn the air up a little higher at night and run fans. Can you live with that?" she asks.

Fuck no. I can't sleep if I'm sweating, but I suppose I can sleep in the nude if I have to.

"Yeah, fine." Suddenly, I'm exhausted, really dragging with fog-brain.

I finish off my dinner, eating way too much, and then take her bowl and mine, preparing to clean up.

She gets up and starts putting stuff away from dinner.

I watch where she puts the chips away so I can snack on them later.

She puts the rest of the soup in a plastic container and sets it in the fridge, along with the cheese.

I wash the pot, our bowls and spoons. She grabs the water she boiled and sets it aside to cool down.

My entire body hums when I'm around her. Doesn't matter if I'm being a fucking house maid. She's near, and I love being involved.

Bella pulls out a pitcher from the fridge and pours me a glass of water.

My heart flutters.

"I boiled this batch when you were sleeping," she says.

"Did you do the taxes too while I was out of it? Fucking hell, woman. You could rule the world while hanging out in your pajamas. Is there anything you didn't do?" I feel like I've been moving in slow motion.

I stand in place, staring at her.

She shrugs and smiles.

"How long was I asleep? Did I turn into Rip Van Winkle?" I cock my head at her.

She giggles, and my cock does too, 'cause it's bobbing in time with her.

Fucking cute.

"Four hours," she says, walking away from me.

"You should probably sleep too," I mutter under my breath.

How is she even functioning at this point?

I'm still tired after sleeping that long.

I dry the stuff I just washed, put them away and then of course follow after her. What else do I have to do?

"Since _you_ slept today, you can take the first shift tonight and keep watch," she intonates.

"Watch what? We can't see out the windows, and I doubt I'll be able to hear anything outside either. Exactly what do you think I'm going to do? Climb the watchtower and shoot any bastard that gets within a mile of this place?" Did she dig a moat while I was asleep, too? Build a catapult? I snort a laugh.

"If you want to perch on the roof, go ahead. I figured you could sit in the office and watch the security TV."

TV? Since when do we have access to a TV? I regroup quickly, round on her and say, "Can I watch a movie while I'm hanging out?"

"Be my guest." She looks like she's ready to fall asleep.

"Anything else you want me to do while I'm keeping my lonely vigil? Shine your shoes maybe? Burn incense in effigy to you, oh holy Bella with a sniper's rifle? Oh, I know . . . Clean the blood off your knives and guns?" I ask, smirking.

"Don't touch any weapons until you learn how to use them," she growls.

"You gonna show me?" I ask, my balls tightening.

"I guess I don't have a choice since I'm stuck with you now." She heads to the basement, locks the door, and I'm left standing in the hallway by myself.

Did her tampon come unlodged? How did she go from giggling, making me want to touch her, to shoving nails into my eye sockets?

I pace.

Okay, what now?


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Alarm**

_BPOV_

Each day for the last two weeks it's the same routine in and out. I wake up at three a.m. and take over monitor duty while Edward crashes in my bed. Instead of watching the screen, I find myself watching him sleep.

He seems so peaceful, and I envy him. I wish I could have some sound sleep. The best night where I slept the longest stretch without interruption was the night I slept with him on that ratty futon mattress at the school. It made no sense whatsoever. We were in a precarious position, not really in a safe shelter at all, yet I don't remember waking up screaming every hour.

I yawn, stretch and stuff my fists under my chin as I lay on my side.

What if he hears me down here? What if he knows about my nightmares?

I chose to sleep in here, rather than in my own bed, so I wouldn't freak him out.

He doesn't need that.

I talk in my sleep and kick and thrash around. It's like a war zone in my head when my brain unfurls and my subconscious lets loose all of the demons that lurk in the crevices of my brain. I dream a lot of being consumed by fire, pursued, stabbed, buried alive, and falling off of a high cliff to my death.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead as I think about some of the worst ones that haunt me.

I take several deep breaths, clearing my head and finally drift off . . .

_Coldness surrounds me, and I'm wet, confused and _swwwwaaaaash_!_

_Somehow I'm underwater. My eyes blink in the murky, churning water, and nothing looks familiar._

_Where am I?_

_Tidal wave after tidal wave pulls me under, and the part that terrifies me the most is the way my chest is heavy, like it's filled with lead. It won't move, and suddenly, my heart is incapacitated as well, also heavy and frozen in place._

_I swipe and claw at the water, and even look around to see which way the bubbles are going so I can find my way to the surface, but there are no more bubbles._

_The water goes black, all light is gone, and I scream inside my head._

_My hands bang into my chest, hoping to dislodge the weights, holding me down._

Fwwwwiiiiiish!

_There's movement. Thank you!_

_I manage to paddle my way over to where I saw it. _

_And I'm no longer alone. In the water, a few feet away, is Edward. He pulls me out of the water. I gasp, taking in precious lungfuls of air. He does nothing but stare at me._

_Then out of nowhere, he dunks us both back under. He smiles and then I realize—he means to drown next to me and do nothing to stop it._

_What the fuck? He doesn't try to save me this time, and before I can figure out what to do, he's gone. Did he sink, and I couldn't get to him in time?_

_I swim and dive, trying to search for him, but there's nothing._

_Just dark._

_Just wet._

_And a solid, entirely weighted feeling inside my vital organs, pulls me deeper down. A moment later, and now my head is the same—heavy and taking me down._

"Ahhhhhhh!" I gasp, bolt upright, and disoriented, look around, my fists up and ready to fight.

I take several stuttering breaths, wipe the sweat off my face and relax back into my spot.

I've had so many nightmares, but until now, I've never had a drowning dream.

I get up and pace, rubbing my chest and heart.

They ache.

When I'm practically clawing my way out of my skin, I get up and go to the office.

I plop down into the seat and sit at the monitor.

_Go watch him . . ._

_No!_

I'm sick.

I will _not_ watch him sleep tonight. I don't care if it soothes me and makes me feel better.

I'm getting way too attached to him, and I've only known him for two weeks. I need to treat him like the chickens or any other pet—expendable.

I close my eyes and settle my face in my hands.

"Stop crying like a girl!" I hiss at myself, my head lolling from side to side, since I'm too exhausted to actually move it more than that.

I stifle a yawn.

When I sit back in the chair, I take a deep breath, and somehow, I smell him.

The man that drives me over the edge of all reason.

I smile when I think of how he constantly cracks me up. How he doesn't back down when I fling verbal insults at him.

Nothing seems to intimidate him, and he's got feelings or some shit because he actually tells me how he feels about stuff.

It takes me back.

I rock in my chair, and as my mind wanders, I contemplate what I can do tomorrow to make him smile.

Today I did his laundry, folded it and put it away.

Yesterday, I fed the chickens for him, when I realized it scared him too.

Tonight when I made dinner, I added extra cheese to the casserole.

What the hell is wrong with me? I've turned into such a pussy.

But I can't seem to stop wanting to cook for him. He makes these amazing little lip smacking sounds, looks at me like I've made his century, and then follows it up with these kinds of comments: "Mmm, God, this is so incredible. I could fucking lick you this is so good."

Then he makes me giggle like a damn girly girl when he goes back for thirds and then gushes even more with things like, "Christ, woman, I think my throat and tonsils just orgasmed, and I creamed myself. Can you cook this again tomorrow?"

I have to look away.

But then it doesn't last long.

Those green eyes . . .

Fucking bastard!

I need a distraction, so I pull out a piece of paper and start planning out what we need to do tomorrow.

He needs clothes.

How many times has me begged me for us to go out looking for some?

The ones in the closet are too damn big, and no matter how much I sew up the waist, he takes them off and prefers to walk around in his boxers, telling me he was swimming in the pants.

"He's gotta knock that shit off," I grit through my teeth.

It's too distracting, and I hate the way it makes me feel.

I squeeze my legs together, to repress the tingling in my clit already.

Don't even think about those gorgeous eyes, or that insanely hot body.

I get up, and before I know it, I'm standing at the foot of his bed.

He sleeps so heavy, and he's so peaceful.

A lump slides down my throat and is wrapped up by the lining of my gut.

Jealousy lances through me in vicious stabs.

Why can't I relax?

Why can't I be like him?

I inhale, and my whole body tingles with some inexplicable sense of desire; so sharp I panic and leave the room in a rush.

On the way back to the desk in the office, I grab a book off the shelf and sit down with it, ready to drown my mind in its words.

I can control myself. I don't have to watch him.

My hands flip over the book so I can look at the cover.

"Oh, c'mon!" I chuckle at myself over what I inadvertently picked out . . . _The Girl Who Owned the City. _"Psht!"

My memory is a little hazy but I think I first read this one in junior high?

I was intrigued with the idea of a little girl being so smart she could figure out how to save people and rule a town after all the adults were wiped out from a horrible plaguing disease. Didn't I want to be her? I admired her courage, her spirit, and her cunning ways. She was thrifty and even caring. Somehow she figured out how to make her way without anybody else showing or telling her how. It was an achievement of spirit more than anything. And she even took care of her younger brother.

I want to care like that—to be brave enough to let go.

_That's how you get killed. Don't even think about it . . ._

I sigh, and delve right into the book. It doesn't take long before I get a little lost in the pages. The story unfolds quickly and it's an easy read since it's Juvenile Fiction.

I smile when I get to the part where the war happens, and the bullies start to get taken down.

God, she's smart.

I turn a page and glance up for a moment at the door.

"Ahhh!" I yelp and slam the book closed.

Green eyes peer at me, so focused and filled with a look of longing, I dart my eyes away.

He chuckles.

My gaze cuts back over to him, and I narrow my eyes, pissed he's getting so good at creeping up on me.

When did I get so used to him, so comfortable, that I decided I could let my guard down?

"Jesus! It's only me," he says, holding his hands up like I've caught him robbing me. He grins.

"Why are you awake?"

"Excuse me for having a nightmare," he says with a bored tone.

"Nightmare. Okay," I say, not bothering to ask what it was about. If he tells me, I'll get sucked in more.

"Yeah, I didn't have my usual two dreams. This one was different." He takes a seat on the love seat pushed up under the window. It's dark in the room, with the exception of the candle glow. I could turn on the lights but I'm paranoid about using electricity if I don't have to.

He smirks, watches me.

What the hell? I know there's candlelight and shit, but this isn't a date.

I shift in my seat.

He keeps watching me like he's waiting for something.

_Stop staring at me!_

I grab the journal I found this morning in the stacks of books in here, and read the next entry, ignoring the tense air surrounding us—the constant electrical-like hum between us.

_June 12th, 2018_

_Jake's freaking out. He's been e-mailing me more than usual. He's kind of scaring me actually. He keeps saying the end is near and we have to find the one before the end happens. The only problem is we think that E. M. is in California, and we have no reliable transportation. I'm without a running car, and Jake doesn't have the money to fix up his truck, so we can get there safely. _

_I definitely think he's off his rocker! He's talking about stealing one of my neighbors' vehicles. There's a Humvee he's got his eye on, and he feels certain he can get past the car alarm and hot-wire it. I don't doubt that he can. But I'm not a thief. That's not my style. Not sure what to do. I just know one morning I'm going to wake up, and Jacob will be gone. He'll have left without me. I have no clue what I'll do if that happens. If he goes, I'll have nobody left. He's my only friend. He's like my brother, and since I have no family, I'll be completely on my own. I don't think I can handle that._

_I keep reminding him that our house isn't ready for E. M. yet. We're still working on the well and making sure the house is completely off-grid. He also wants to kidnap this guy. I'm still not sure about that either. I think we could figure out a way to get him to come with us if we tell him we want to protect him and keep him safe._

I sigh. This Jacob Black is one crazy fucked up guy! I don't think I want to find him now.

"What's wrong?" Edward asks me, his voice thick with concern.

I flinch.

How the hell can I tell him I was in the planning stages with some psycho to kidnap him?

"Tell me. What's going on. Why are you upset?"

"Nothing's wrong," I mumble.

"Am I annoying you?" His voice goes up in pitch.

"When don't you annoy me?" I tease with a smile.

"I don't know . . . _you_ tell _me_. I know I bug the hell out of you. I'm not trying to. I just . . . like being around you," he says hesitantly.

_Well_ . . . _great! Now your heart's pounding and you can't seem to look away. Fucking perfect!_

My stomach is blasted with a swarm of butterflies when I take in the way he's looking at me like he really does care.

How am I supposed to keep my distance and be aloof when he says stuff like this?

I shove my hair off my face, and huff.

When he keeps staring, patiently, motionless, I grow even more tense.

I take a deep breath and tell him, "I like you, too . . . a _lot_."

_Holy fucking mother of God! You can't say that! You never tell people how you feel about them . . ._

I blink and shift away, pretending to go back to the journal.

"Hey," he says.

"Mmm," I grunt.

"It's okay, you know . . ."

I shove the book aside and stare at him like I'll rip his balls off if he says what I think he wants to.

"You can like me. It's okay."

I snort. "Yeah, okay . . ."

"It is. We're allowed to like each other. My mom said so," he jokes.

"Fuck you and your shitty mom," I murmur.

"Well, seeing as how she's probably dead, and I'm not into incest, I'll have to pass. But if you want to offer your services?" His lopsided smile, makes me chuckle.

"You're such an idiot," I say.

"A likable idiot though, right?"

I nod, but barely and then grimace. Does he really want me to fuck him?

_No._

_Then why would he say that?_

"I'm just teasing, Bella." He leans forward on his seat.

My face drops a little and my stomach feels like it's munching on my insides.

"Oh, yeah, I know," I say, rubbing my eyes. Why are they burning like this?

"I mean, I realize this is probably when you're gonna stand up and shoot me in the gut for kicks, right, since I'm messing with you? 'Cause I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone. You hate me," he corrects me. "You don't have to pretend to like me to spare my feelings."

I growl. "You don't know anything because if you did, you'd see I don't hate you at all. I have the opposite problem. I like you too much . . . and it . . ." I blow out in a loud gust of air. My fists ball up, and I want to explode something really badly!

"And it . . . _what_?" He stops breathing, his nostrils flare and his hands grip the edge of the couch.

"Bothers me," I say, trying to hide the conflict and frustration by sucking my lips in, tucking them behind my teeth and biting down on them to keep them shut.

"Why is that a problem?" He stares into my eyes, and his are so soft and such a deep, inviting green, my heart melts a little with each breath I take. Eventually, my throat constricts, and I can't speak, so he keeps going, "Occupational hazard?"

I choke on an inhalation and manage to say, "Something like that." I look at my hands placed on the desk.

"If you can't feel, you aren't alive," he replies.

Then I must have two lives in me because I'm feeling entirely too much.

"I'm serious. It's not a bad thing to feel," he reiterates.

I roll my eyes. "Thanks Buddha on the Mountaintop—I'll make sure to tattoo that on the back of my hand so I don't forget."

"You should. In fact, I'll do it for you." He leaps up, grabs a pen off the desk, grabs my hand in a flash and holds it down on the desk.

My eyes go wide, and even though my natural instinct is to flatten him out and remove three of his teeth in the process, I wait and watch with morbid curiosity over what he'll write.

He draws a big puffy heart on the back of my hand. But all I can concentrate on this warmth, spreading up my wrist, and the way my flesh prickles under his touch.

Is that normal? And should I be holding my breath because of it?

I blink and stare at our hands, touching each others.

"That helps _sooo_ much," I drawl.

"It does. I've got one of my own." He lets go of my hand and then quickly draws one on his own. "See?" He grins.

I chuckle and put my feet up on the desk, pushing away from him a little and hiding my hand between my thighs, hoping that the tingling in my pussy and hand will go away quickly.

He sighs and leans toward me. His mouth opens then shuts, like he wanted to ask something but then thought better of it.

"I know you're gonna ask me anyway, if not now, then later—just say it," I tell him.

He sobers and has this damn near guilty look in his eyes. "How many guys have you been with?"

"How many have _you_?" I tease, ignoring the twisting in my gut.

_He thinks you're a whore._

I glance down at my lap—at my hand hidden between my legs.

Who cares what he thinks?

_I do_.

I bite back a whine, building in the back of my throat, along with the bile, making its presence known.

Does he think I'm disgusting?

I swallow.

"I asked you first. So—how many?"

"I don't know." I shrug. "It's not like I kept track, and anyway, my memory's still very sketchy." I tighten my hand between my legs into a ball and almost dig my claws into my leg.

_Don't tell him . . ._

"Ballpark guess. A dozen? Two dozen?" His eyes are luminous, and so innocent looking, like he's asking something as innocuous as my favorite color.

"Oh Christ! Are we really going to have this conversation?" I ask, giving him the stupid-eyes.

"Sure. What else do we have to talk about?" He leans into the desk.

"Politics, religion and the boogie man—the reason we both have nightmares. Those are stimulating topics we haven't covered yet," I say, barking a laugh.

"We talk about religion," he corrects me.

"Only to make fun of it," I say and lean further back in my chair.

Why is he so close to me?

Does he have to smell this good?

I hold my breath again.

"And to talk about how my parents were zealots when it came to the prophecies and how they tried to keep me in a fucked up bubble."

"Oh yeah . . ." I laugh. "My favorite part is when you start talking about how you were such a rebel; drinking, smoking and then the tattoo." I wave my wrist at him. "Tell me again how they had a conniption and cut you off monetarily—'cause that's some seriously funny shit."

I wait for him to explode in a rage.

Instead he smiles and chuckles. "I have no idea why I didn't get a tattoo on my chest and have it go all the up my neck. They would've loved that."

"Make 'em proud," I say.

"Exactly. Shortsighted assholes—they didn't see how cool I was." He rolls his eyes, mocking himself.

"You seriously are a stupid douche; you know that, right?"

He nods and puckers up. "I am. Now tell me how many men you've fucked."

I swipe at my face with my free hand and exhale with a grunt. "Fine . . . I'm not really sure, but if I had to guess I would say maybe ten? I only went that route if it was the only way to learn something I was dying to know. I wanted to be in the armed forces but the _man_ kept me down—remember, from that scrapbook in the safe?"

He nods.

"So, then you know I had to gain knowledge any way I could. I'm not loose; that's not me. I didn't do the dating, seduction thing. I can't even stomach the thought of being like that. Plus, I doubt I had time for that. Sex wasn't about love, it was about barter."

"You make it sound like you were painting their house or fixing their car for them. Sex is a big deal, Bella," he says, his eyes stormy. He puts one palm over his belly.

He has this look of disappointment in his eyes that about makes me fling myself out of my chair and wrap my arms around him, so I can ask him to forgive me for being so calloused.

"It isn't a big deal to most men, and since I was playing in their world, I had to play by their rules," I tell him, pretending to shrug it off.

He swallows hard, and his face pales. "Did you kiss them?"

"Sure, why wouldn't I?"

"Because that's getting personal and intimate. I'm surprised you did that since you seem like you wanted to remain distanced and uncaring." He dry washes his face and groans.

"I didn't think about it; it was all about business," I say. Inwardly I give a small cringe. I make the mistake of glancing at him. Guilt lances through my gut, and when I look once more at those eyes of his, staring at me like he's hurt, I am covered in shame; mortified over my past actions.

My shoulders round forward and hunch up a little, almost swallowing my head.

I have to look away from him, so I stare at my feet on the desk.

"Did they touch you?" His voice quivers.

"Yes . . ." I say, gulping a little bit, wishing I could tell him to screw off like I usually do.

I knead my fist into my inner thigh for being such a bitch to him. I wish I could be softer—more understanding and caring.

But I'm just Bella—the woman that likes to create her own explosions and shrapnel.

"Did you like it?" he asks, barely above a whisper.

I can't do this . . .

I get up to leave. When I'm almost out the door, he grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. Normally I would have my fist pounding in his jaw by now, but his brow and eyes scrunch in utter turmoil.

"Did you like it? Please, tell me," he pleads.

"Why does it matter?" I whine, my heart cinching down and pressing its way down into my bowels.

His eyes bore into me with a soft, tender gaze.

_Don't cry. He'll drop this soon . . ._

My right eye twitches and my lips part.

"It matters . . . Tell me, please," he says, eyes gentle but voice husky.

"No, I didn't like it. _Happy_?" Can I disappear now?

"Why didn't you like it?"

"How the hell should I know? Maybe they didn't know what they were doing? Maybe I'm a soulless monster? Who the hell knows?" He steps closer to me, our bodies almost touching and then he gives me a knowing look. I huff and say, "Obviously, you seem to know the answer, so why don't you enlighten me?"

"I'm not going to tell you why it didn't feel good. Only you know that," he says.

My eyes go wide. "This is important to you . . . isn't it?" My insides twist.

His hand moves up my wrist then simply caresses up and down my arm.

My eyes want to follow it, but I'm spellbound by his lips parting and can't look away from his mouth or stop fixating on the way his breathing is so labored.

I try to shrug and shy away from his touch, but he won't allow it. He steps closer still, and his strokes grow longer, more insistent.

"Let me . . . I want you to feel . . ." He wiggles his legs inside mine. My insides are clenching and gnashing fiercely.

"I don't want to," I tell him. My eyes shift to the floor.

"I want you to see why it didn't feel good when they did that you." His voice goes hoarse.

I watch, glued in place as he cups his right hand under my left and forms my hand into a very relaxed fist with my thumb and index finger on top like I'm forming a hole.

Fuck, it's already really suggestive, and I want to look at anything but him and what he's doing, but it's like there's a crane, chained to my chin, keeping it facing him.

"Feel this," he says. His tongue languorously dips in and out of my faux pussy. His mouth is relaxed and so seductive. My hand shakes and my body warms then tingles at his touch.

My breath catches low in my throat, and almost makes a whistling noise as it stays trapped and makes it hard to breathe.

His breathing does the opposite—it quickens and moves easily.

His velvet, open mouth kisses, soft sucks and tiny nips, make my core tighten.

My legs feel weak—about to give out on me. I press my back up against the door jamb.

He lifts his eyes to me to gauge my reaction and smiles through his licking and lubricating my hand for God knows what.

Fuck, I'm a panting mess. Oh, God he looks so sinfully sexy doing these obscene things to me.

I can easily imagine him doing that in other places on me. The way his mouth gives long, sultry passes across my salty skin is intoxicating.

My eyelids go heavy, and my vision almost blurs a little.

"Come on, Bella . . . tell me what you like. You want it softer?" he asks as his tongue lightens to almost a tickle. "Or harder?" His suction increases slightly but it's still all fucking hot and making me squirm.

"I . . . um . . . uh, I don't . . . know," I stammer, unable to think clearly.

"What about teeth?" he asks as the edges run a line along my knuckle, and it feels too good!

I moan, low in the heart of my belly.

"You like that?" he lilts, smirking.

"Yeah . . . as long as it's not biting me too hard," I say, feeling stupid. My hips jut forward when he nibbles at the fleshiest part of the dip between my thumb and forefinger.

"What about pressing my tongue inside?" he asks with a lopsided grin.

"Jesus . . . I have no idea," I say, my thighs tightening.

"Well, let's try it then," he says as his tongue slowly plunges in.

I gasp at the feel of his soft, wet tongue on the inner flesh of my palm. It's so sensitive that my hand twitches a little each time his tongue dips and runs up the inside of it.

"Ohhhh . . . fuuuck," I groan, my eyes sliding up in my head. I wish he'd stop—I'm so wired, I can't feel my toes. Why is he doing this to me? I don't want to confuse anything. I'm supposed to protect him . . . this isn't in the plan.

"You taste salty . . . mmm, I _love_ salty," he whispers between his expert sucking and licking of my hand.

"We can stop now," I say, He's gotta know I'm aroused. My feet shift around, trying to figure out if I should stay or go.

"Why? I'm trying to understand what you like . . . what makes you tick," he explains.

"I've told you what I like," I say, trying to pull my hand back in a feeble attempt.

He grips it harder about the wrist with his hands. "No you haven't," he accuses.

"I have," I argue and manage to break my hand free of his rapacious tongue. I pull it behind my back so he can't get at it again.

I don't think I can survive if he decides to give another demonstration.

"Why don't you show _me_, since I don't remember you telling me with certainty what you prefer?" He extends his hand out to me.

He eyes me with a challenge.

"Too afraid to taste the salt on my skin?" His eyebrow cocks at me, and I grab his damn hand.

_I'll show him how this is done!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Firsts**

_EPOV_

"Too afraid to taste the salt on my skin?" I cock my eyebrow and smirk.

"Why don't I show you what I can do?" she asks, eyes twinkling at me.

"Do whatever you want," I say, sounding nonchalant.

Finally . . . She's going to touch me willingly.

_Yeah, but you tricked her into it. That's not her being willing when you knew if you challenged her, she wouldn't back down._

I ignore the way my conscience oozes through my brain and then infects each particle.

My heart hammers as I watch in what seems like her moving in slow motion—my hand is almost to her mouth. I stare, teeth grinding and breath caught in my chest—dying to see what she'll do.

She uncurls my fist and takes my right index and middle finger, extending them easily.

"How hard do you want it?" she asks. Her breath trickles down my knuckles, and I'm already whimpering with my legs twitching.

"Start out slow, soft, relaxed and then do what you want." My mouth parts, and a small whine trickles past my lips.

She nods without breaking eye contact. Her eyes are heavy hooded, her breathing controlled, but I can feel the strain from repressing herself, radiating off her in a massive way. The tendons in her neck pulse.

I blink and brace myself, unsure of what to expect. Nobody's ever done anything like this to me before.

The second her tongue touches the tips of my fingers, I about explode in pleasure.

My pelvis tips forward and my stomach caves in on me, making my chest round toward her.

I probably look like she just stroked my dick and then kicked me in the gut. I'm sure it's a ridiculous physical reaction, but holy fuck, this feels amazing.

I resist groaning, no matter how erotic this is.

Then she looks at me like she desires me more than much needed oxygen, and I exhale with a grinding, grunting, anguished sound.

"Fuck," I moan.

Her labored breathing is making me so desperate I almost want to cry, and the way the tip of her tongue dances around my fingers, has me buzzing.

_Slllluuuuuck, slllluuuuuck, slllluuuuuck . . ._

She sucks in a rhythmic, perfectly timed way that it simulates fucking, enough to make me go insane.

I inch toward her and my fingers flex, begging me to stroke myself and maybe grab her tit with my other hand.

She watches me with rapt attention as the tip of her tongue drags up the crease between my two fingers on the underside.

My toes dig into the ground and my knees go weak.

Her mouth kisses and gently sucks, releases, sucks, releases, sucks at the tips of my fingers, and all I can do is exhale slowly.

I'm about ready to pass out.

Her eyes follow my every facial reaction.

I try to keep my expression blank, but I'm failing miserable.

My panting if nothing else, is giving me away.

Each time she smirks, my chest flames and my heart races.

I shift around, uncomfortable as fuck with my dick begging me to pierce her, claim her soul as mine the way she's done to me.

"That good? The best you've ever had?" she asks with a wicked taunt in her eyes. She blows across my moist hand, her head traveling from side to side.

"The only one I've ever had," I say with a deep guttural groan. I'm so close to losing it. My tip bobs.

She steps into me and oh God! My eyes roll back in my head.

A jolt spikes through me as her hand grips my thigh. My leg jerks immediately on contact, and I gasp.

"What about this? You like being touched here?" Her voice is thick, velvet, sugar-spun honey, dripping and oozing sensuality, even more so than my tip, moistening the fabric covering it.

"I don't know," I say, my voice breaking.

Her hand is tight on my leg, and her mouth continues to assault me.

I close my eyes; afraid I'll do something stupid and make a fool of myself.

_I can handle this . . . Deep breaths. Don't come._

"Whadaya mean you don't know?"

"I've never been touched with a hand down there," I blurt.

Shit! I grimace and my shoulders hunch.

I open my eyes to gauge her revulsion, but it's not there . . . I'm met with understanding and . . . what? Empathy?

"What about one-night stands? What was the best one of those you ever had?" she asks, her smirk gone; replaced by a soft, tender look.

"Same deal." _Please, don't let her pity me. I don't want that!_

Her features go blank.

"Why? I don't get it. One-night stands are a right of passage. Why haven't you done that? And why hasn't a woman touched you here?" she asks. Her hand kneads into the muscle, drags up and down my leg, and Christ, she's gonna make me . . .

_Think of anything but her touch._

My mind tries to summon up images of my parents, but she's so close, her breath pelts over my mouth, and I inhale deeply, to take it all in—and I'm back to moaning.

Jesus, she smells so good.

Always.

She stops and then grips the zipper; edges it down one tooth at a time.

My stomach clenches, and out of nowhere, my hand flies out and settles over hers, pushing it flat.

She's practically cupping me, but I can't let her do this.

At some point she undid my button, too; my fly is now gaping halfway open. I've stopped her before this went too far; her eyes are zeroed in on mine, questioning why I halted her progress.

"Why . . . Edward? You should have experienced all of those things." She settles her weight onto her left foot, and the effect is to put her face even more directly in front of mine.

My eyes flit from her mouth to her eyes, and back to her gorgeous lips.

_Kiss her . . ._

"Why, Edward? Why aren't you fucking around with women? You're sexy as hell."

I flinch at her prying words yet butterflies zip around in my stomach at her mention of me being sexy.

_Do you like me, Bella? Do you want me?_

My head angles back a little so I can see all of her expression.

All I see is honesty there.

So, she thinks I'm sexy?

Warm, flutters, overtake my heart.

She wiggles her hand out of mine, plays around at the waistband of my boxers, and I jump at her touch.

Oh, God, she's gonna . . .

No flesh beyond my own has touched me under any of my clothes at all. My hands bunch into fists and my arms flex.

"Edward . . . ? How many girls have you taken to bed?" she asks.

"Oh . . . Bella, please . . . I don't wanna . . . nobody's ever done that," I whimper, moving about, restless.

"How many?" she repeats, eyes blazing.

"In my _bed_?" I ask, trying to be smart and avoid humiliation and rejection.

"How many girls have you had _in-ter-course_ with?" she asks slowly.

"I . . ." My eyes dart around the room. Is there some way to answer this without saying too much? I blow out and my stomach feels ready to fall out of me.

"Tell me . . . tell me and I'll do anything you want," she says as she drops to her knees and starts slowly peeling my jeans down my thighs until they finally drop to the ground.

My legs heat at the brush of her hands against my skin. I step out of my pants, bunched at my ankles and kick them aside.

She stands up, an inch away from me and repeats, "How many women has this hot bod known intimately? I know your cock keeps count."

"Bella . . . you have to understand . . . I couldn't ever get close to anyone. Women either wanted to be with me because they thought I was some sort of deity or they thought I would make them famous . . ." I stumble with my words and sound like a complete tool. My heart clenches and bile threatens at the back of my throat to do much more than sit there.

She waits, staring at me.

"How many, Edward?" she asks, then leans in. Her mouth breathes humid, torturous air onto my neck. She kisses from my ear to my shoulder and makes this sweet, moaning, murmuring sound as she licks and says dirty things to me.

"I . . . O-oh God!" My neck tips back.

"They want you because you're gorgeous . . . They want to taste you, know you're real. Fuck, you taste good," she groans through her whispers, her words almost inaudible. "They want to consume you; they can't control it. I can't blame them."

"Please . . . don't tease me . . . if I tell you, do you promise, do you . . . will you keep touching me? Will you let me . . . ?" My voice cracks, and I can barely breathe.

"Do I ever lie?" she asks and nips her way across the top of my chest and over to my collar bone. She sucks the skin in with a slurping, popping sound.

"No, but . . . Unngh," I groan, "I'm all talk, all show. I've never been with a woman at all; I'm a virgin," I admit.

My arms flop to my sides, and I exhale every last bit of air from my body.

_You're worthless as a man, as a human being. You suck, and she knows it._

She stops kissing my flesh and glares at me.

"We're going to do this right," she says, her voice harsh. "This isn't about pity. This is about helping each other. Get in my bed."

I stand still; feeling exposed. Not because I'm half naked, but because I've revealed my basest desire—to know the touch of a woman.

Why would she do this other than pity?

Before I can object, change my mind, her lips are on mine, soft but insistent, parting my lips.

The second her tongue invades my mouth, I choke on my breath and whine as my tongue touches hers.

She walks me backward through the hallway, her hands gently pushing on my abs, propelling me.

I step tentatively into her room, walking without seeing.

I chuckle at the back of my throat at how apropos this is . . . I can't see anything when I'm with her. The future seems uncertain, since she's uncertain of me. But for some reason this . . . this could cement my life—put it in its rightful sphere.

The room is dark, but full of desire and intense, tender emotions.

I gasp for air, grip at the back of her head and try not to trip and fall as she keeps shuffling me where she wants me to be.

She stops and breaks her mouth away from mine.

I flinch, and in a moment of blinding, panic, I confess, "I'm a liar, full of shit. Do you know how much I hate myself?"

My hands roam down her back; I can't stop touching her since she's allowing it. Besides, she might tell me to stop any second now that she knows what an asshole I am, always pretending to be experienced with women.

"Don't hate yourself," she tells me.

I nip at her neck and groan into her hair, barely resisting undressing her.

God, she's so warm and soft in my hands. My fingers dip under the edge of her shirt, and my chest breaks out in goose flesh as my fingers caress and sample her sweet, satin flesh.

"I'm jealous; that's a basic commandment I'm breaking," I say, my hips swaying back and forth, burrowing deeper into her stance.

I lick my lips. My mind races; I want to tell her all. I've already started and it's cathartic, albeit, still frightening. But she's here, she's listening, and so far, no judgment or words of reproach.

"What are you jealous of?" she asks, backing me up to the bed.

She pulls my shirt up over my head. I fall back onto the mattress, waiting, choking on my breath over what she might do next.

She drops on top of me. Her fingers make contact with my nipples and then pinch a little.

Fuck! A jolt of electricity flies from that small area and heads straight to my cock.

"I'm jealous of you," I say.

"_Me_?" She sits up and settles on my groin, hovering.

_Bob, bob. _My dick's nestled between her thighs, and the dip at the crotch of her jeans is too small for me, but I love it anyway. The feel of her weight on top of me, trapping my head in place, keeping it from escaping, makes my heart pound harder.

I pause, trying to figure out how to explain. "You had touch; I didn't. It didn't mean anything to you though . . . and I wish I had it. So much, I want connection but now my choices are limited." My eyes drop. My spirit sags. "You don't have to touch me. I don't want a pity lay. If you touch me, I want it to be because you want to . . . not because I tricked you into it. I'm sorry. I dreamed about you, and I felt desperate and you . . . I was in here, and it smells like you. And I really, _really_ love the way you smell," I ramble in one long rush and in one dragging, whimpering breath.

Soft eyes look straight through me.

"Edward . . ." she breathes, "my problem is that I like you _too_ much, and it would be better for me if I didn't. I never touch a man out of pity, and I won't do that now either. My biggest issue with you is you're distracting to say the least . . . I want to keep you safe, and if I stay unattached I can do my job much better." Her fingers trail down my stomach, making my skin rush and goose bumps flash.

"A _job_? Forget it," I say, trying to roll out from under her. This is not right! I don't want it this way.

"Shut up and kiss me," she says, her mouth latching onto mine in a crushing move.

Her bodyweight pins me, and it's so heady, my hips start to flex into her.

She moves to kiss my neck, then my chest and she sucks at my right nipple.

My hand grips around the back of her neck, pressing her mouth harder into me.

More. Oh, fuck! I grind, and her jeans scrape through my boxers. The pain is minimal because the pleasure surrounding me overwhelms everything else.

"Oh, th-that feeeels!" I mutter and then . . . and then . . . tongue. All tongue. Her mouth is open, sucking on mine and her fingers play at my waistband, snapping and stretching it.

"I could run my tongue over your entire body," she says.

"Ungh . . . uh, you feel amazing," I groan. My hands are dying to touch her in more intimate places. Her hips move ever so slightly and I growl. "Uuummm, uungh, I need . . . I need to feel more, to move." My back arches and eyes plead with her to end this torture.

I want to grab and take her so much but I doubt she'll allow me to do anything at all besides follow her lead. I'm probably pushing it as it is with my mouth on hers, taking charge . . .

She wiggles her ass over me and pushes her body tight into me.

I flip her over onto her back and climb on top of her.

My hands tremble as I extend them. "Can I touch you? _Please_?"

"I wish you wouldn't," she says, a pained expression on her face.

"That's not a 'no,'" I clarify.

"Hands only," she tells me warily.

She's fully clothed in her normal pajamas: thin cotton, stretchy shorts, threadbare gray wife-beater, dark enough in color I can't see through it. I've tried, many times.

She doesn't say if I can touch skin-to-skin, so I take advantage of her not specifying. No mouth—she made that stipulation, but I can do what she did to me earlier.

I slip my hands under her clothes and tease at the waistband.

Her breath hitches.

I pant and squirm. I'm doing what I've never done in my entire life—feeling a woman's supple body in the palms of my hands.

Does this feel good to her at all?

She's breathing hard, and hasn't pushed me away.

I slip two fingers inside and hit the tops of her curls. A high pitched sigh escapes her, so I push my entire hand down her shorts and cup her pussy. I suck at her shoulder and grab at her harder. I groan and smile at her reaction.

My fingers curl and find slick, moisture pooled in her folds.

I drag it around her lips and my breath goes hoarse and scrapes its way out of my lungs.

It's difficult to keep from stripping her shorts off.

_She's yours. She doesn't care about the prophecies. She doesn't see you as a freak, and there's no pedestal to put you on. You're Edward to her, and no one else. She's perfect for you; claim her body now!_

I choke on a sobbing, whimpering breath.

Her impossibly deep eyes hold me, making my desire inside tighten so sharp until I think I might snap.

I lift her shirt halfway up her torso. My eyes close for a minute, unable to take it all in; what divine flesh I might see. When I open them and look down at her taut, toned belly, I realize I'm right. Her body is perfect in all of its imperfections. Each healed wound is magical; stunning. I run my fingers over each of them reverently in turn and kiss them, sealing my love into her pores.

By all accounts her body is mangled and hideously scarred with burn marks all up and down the exposed area. But that's not what I see; I'm looking at creamy, white, pure flesh that's been purified through trial and fire. _That_ is what I'm aware of. Her strength and beauty is marvelous.

"So perfect, so beautiful . . ." I moan with a long, pulsing wet exhale. "I love seeing you up close like this."

"Dammit! I'm a monstrosity, Edward. Please, don't lie to me. You don't have to say anything at all," she huffs, rolling her eyes and looking at the wall, right past me.

"I'm not lying . . ." I follow a wavy pattern down the line of her body, kissing, taking, ignoring any sign of self-consciousness from her. "I've never seen anything so exquisite. Trust that I won't lie. I can't . . . not with you." My hands worship, fondle and possess her body.

I pull her shorts down enough that she's almost fully exposed, but it rests on her hips just enough she can pull them back if she decides she doesn't want me.

When I look back up at her, I am met with eyes full of pooling desire, layered with fear.

I move up her body and settle my dick into the crevice between her thighs.

Uncharacteristically, she touches me with tiny, tender gestures. She offers soft whispered sighs at the corners of my mouth with her lips so close, her fingertips ghosting over my eyelids.

"You honestly like me?" she asks.

"Bellllaaaa . . . You know I do," I breathe "And, Christ, you feel so incredible, but I don't know how much more of this I can take without doing something you might regret." My body roars, wanting to take, to take, and take some more until I give her everything inside me.

"I made a promise," she sighs in a content, happy kind of way.

I spit curse after curse as she trails light kisses down my chest. She stops momentarily to run her tongue over my left nipple. A quick wave of heat jaggedly runs down my spine, making me arch and jut my chest forward.

"So gorgeous," she says to me through a sparkling smile that takes my breath away. She's so relaxed and serene; there's a sweet feminine, nurturing quality about her that's so sensual and powerful in a subtle way.

I blink after several seconds of refusing to look away. I've never seen her like this before—all tenderness and light.

Her hands are everywhere, but it's still not what I need; what I crave.

"Please . . . oh please," I rush my plea.

"I want to give you what you want . . . but I don't . . ." she trails off, sounding unsure of herself.

"That's o-okay, you can . . . do what you're comfortable with; just, don't stop," I beg, I need something. I don't know what, but I can't take it anymore. My thoughts are getting more deviant by the minute.

She smiles, and shifts down me a little. "I'll try . . ."

"Ssssffff . . . soooo good," I say through a winded, tight body. I'm breathing so hard there can't possibly be enough oxygen in this room that's almost collapsing around me.

She kisses all along my abs, tickling my sides with her hair. Goose bumps erupt with each sweeping pass of the loose strands.

"Oh, B-Bellaaaa," I say as my body ripples a moan. My chest strains and grunts with feral noises I've never heard before. "I want you." _Please, fuck me . . ._

And then . . . oh! Her throaty moan reverberates through me. I have to stop; take a break before I can't contain it.

Bella is patient with me.

All night we go back and forth. We make out; tasting, exploring, and pushing each other as far as we can go until I finally lose it and come in my boxers.

Spent, exhausted and so happy I may die of over-saturated, buzzing nerves, my limbs flop onto the bed.

Fully expecting her to take her leave, I close my eyes. I'm wasted beyond anything I've ever felt. My body is putty, my heart is raw and my mind is washed clean, baptized by Bella's mouth and body on mine for such a long period of time. She didn't laugh at me; criticize anything I did.

Her silky skin brushes up against my side and she curls into me.

"Thank you." I muffle my gratitude by a hefty yawn.

"You're welcome. You deserve it; you need touch and I can . . ." She trails off, leaving me hanging, but I'm too tired to chase it down.

"Sleep," she commands my body.

"'Kay," I sleepily agree.

My body complies, my mind bends to her desire and I'm gone.

What feels like mere minutes later, I wake, and it's with an empty burn inside of me. No heat at my side, no long strands of charcoal hair on my pillow, no breath to comfort me. Only ache and void.

Sitting up, I take in my surroundings and try to square my shoulders, trying to convince my mind she really did touch me, and I touched her back. I'm still a virgin, but I learned so much. No, I _felt_ so much. It was a night I'll never forget.

A smile creeps up my body and lands on my face.

I want to do all of that again.

I couldn't be happier. We belong together, and she can't possibly deny what we have between us now. The proof was in our touch, in our eyes and there's no walking away from that.

How could I have found heaven in the midst of a burned, wasted world that weeps from devastation and memories of abundance and wealth?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and voices float in from the living room.

All of them female. I hear Bella, but there are two other women talking to her.

What the hell is going on?

I grab my shirt, my dirty, crumpled shorts from yesterday I left on the floor. As fast as I can, I tug them on and run after the sound of an intense conversation.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Found**

_BPOV_

I fell asleep in Edward's encircling arms. I let him touch me; I'm so screwed!

Why did I do that? Why did I let it get so personal?

I sigh and run my hands over my face.

Everything already feels different . . . confusing. I like things black and white—transparent.

He stays in his corner, I stay in mine. He's weak, I'm strong. He needs help, I protect him. Simple.

God. I've blurred the lines so much, I have no idea what I'm looking at anymore. All I know is a primal need to touch, taste and be near him.

As I roll away from him, shift on the bed, goose bumps cover my arms.

Fuck! Just looking at him does this to me?

I need to be punched in the head so my brain will come back.

My bones almost turn to mush as I take one more look at him.

It's fine. I'm fine. I don't really need him or this.

I slipped; won't happen again.

It can't.

I shake my head and look away.

A moment of insanity. I felt sorry for the poor guy . . . only, I _didn't_. That wasn't why I was all over him, touching his dick and kissing him like I couldn't breathe unless his hands were on me.

My heart swells as I recall the way he looked at me, the way he said my name when he would moan.

I wanted to feel his flesh on mine, give him pleasure; make him happy. More than anything—wanted him to have what he craved more than anything—_touch_.

But my touch?

I leave the room and close the door behind me before I do something else stupid—like beg him to fuck me.

I doubt I've ever been this wet between the thighs.

"Shit," I hiss. I didn't know what I was doing.

Did I hurt him with my manhandling, my hack of a blow-job?

Should I check on him—make sure I didn't break him?

"Fuck that—leave him and his dick alone," I mutter under my breath and shuffle my way to the kitchen.

It's not like I really know what I'm doing, and when I touched him last night, I was going purely off instinct and his reactions.

And cuddling afterward? Why the hell was I doing that? He didn't even ask me to do it, but I simply did it because it felt natural, and I wanted to, dammit.

I'm awake now, have been for a while, my chest rising and falling with his breath. I was lightly trembling from his hands stroking my skin in his sleep. Soft, warm, waves of pleasure kept spreading throughout my body and took hold of my mind, keeping me prisoner in the bed with him. I am . . . sated; at peace.

I can't understand this perplexing connection we share.

My mind tells me this is wrong.

Am I allowed to be happy when the entire world's gone to hell?

I can't see him in this light. I wish I could. His eyes would tell me to stop panicking and he would know the answers I can't seem to find.

I exhale and wish for his grip to be back on me, but why would I want that?

My eyes close for a second, and I get up; change into my clothes for the day. I opt to skip the shower, wanting to smell him on me all day. God, he smells really good. We use the same soap, the same laundry detergent, but when it mixes with his skin, it takes on a life of its own.

I need to get out of here. If I keep on inhaling his aroma, dwelling on how much I want to touch him again, I'll wake him up and wind up taking last night's mistake a step further.

Work—need to keep busy, keep my mind numb and hands engaged.

I grab our laundry and figure if I can wash some of his scent out of his clothes, I'll be a step closer to control. Before throwing the clothes into the wash, I lean in and take one last whiff.

God—that's sinful . . .

I throw the laundry into the washing machine and the muslin bag on top with the soap berries inside it. I don't bother to soak them in hot water first like I should. My brain is all over the place. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment to gather my thoughts.

Why can't I stay away from him? Is he really that irresistible, or is there something wrong with me?

I shake it off and mentally go through a list of what I need to do.

It might be good to go gather fruit from the garden, but then . . . it's not producing much in this infernal heat. I've been watching the thermometer from the kitchen window every day after I wake, directly after I open the metal shutters for an hour or two in the mornings so we can get some natural light into our home, besides what the skylights provide.

I step into the kitchen and stretch my neck, glancing around the room and feeling absolutely nothing.

Why don't I want to do these mundane chores? Why do I keep fighting the urge to go back in there and have him wrap his arms around me?

Well, I can control myself in our home. Jeeeesus! _Our_ home? Yeah right! This is a shelter; it's not a Goddamn place where we actually want to be. There's a difference between choosing a place because you love it and can't imagine living anywhere else, and taking a place because it's the best option for long term survival.

I lean into the kitchen counter, my head drops forward, and once more, I try to concentrate on the things I should do.

My shoulders sag.

Who fucking cares if I miss feeding the chickens for one day if I'm calling this place our house in my head? That's so fucked up, I don't even know where to begin in terms of figuring out what to do about it.

Granted, it happened to actually be my house, I own it, but still . . .

A pang rips through my chest when I think about what this place means to him. The only reason he stays and puts up with my prickles and stings is because I feed him and give him toilet paper to wipe his ass with.

I sigh, my shoulders bobbing in a ridiculous, exaggerated way.

As I load up the washer, I try to ignore that nagging feeling of missing him. He's always right there behind me, talking to me, watching as I'm doing my domestic chores.

My whole body relaxes, and I smile at the image of him leaning up against the wall and giving me crap about every little thing I do, just for fun. My God, he's a thorn in my side but he's so adorable and fun, I find it hard to keep from grinning around him.

I finish starting the laundry and move quickly since the sun should be rising right about now. My morning rituals help to get me centered on most days. Today will hopefully be one of _those_ days.

I open the metal protector over the window in the kitchen and gaze around for any sign of intruders in the yard. It looks secure, but I double-check the security monitors anyway. Once more—nothing seems amiss. I prepare by putting on one of the bulletproof vests then grab a handgun and slide it into the back of my waistband. After my shoes are on and I have a container to put my fresh produce in, I step out and lock the door in case something happens to me. It closes and I sigh—Edward will be safe.

The morning is still eyebrow-singeing hot. Nighttime temperatures seem hotter than ever.

Somehow my plants continue to survive.

I run my hand over one of the drip hose and thank God I set up a battery operated timer drip system. I'd never be out here watering by hand, especially now that we're in danger.

My fingers are steady as I pick the sparse fruit and vegetables, and then glance back at the door, wishing I was already back inside our air-conditioned home.

Are there even other survivors out here at this point? Maybe the man that was living here has died from heat exhaustion and dehydration by now? It wouldn't take long.

A shiver runs down my spine.

_He's still alive . . ._

Shit. I can't think about what he's doing, if he's gathering help to come after us.

Once my hemp bag is full of three large zucchini, one personal size watermelon, three Armenian cucumbers, a handful of tomatoes and a bell pepper, I step back inside and lock back up. The Swiss chard wasn't looking so good today and Edward doesn't really like how bitter it is. I of course tell him to man-up and that if he eats his veggie greens he might someday have muscles, called biceps, like I do.

_Jesus—stop smiling._

I blink and open the fridge to put the produce away. How does he do this to me? He's in another room entirely, and I can't stop thinking about him.

But God, he always makes me laugh when he throws something at me when I try to bully green vegetables into him. It only takes a few moments later before he's laughing too when I flex my arms at him. Of course it never works—the green veggies go untouched by him. I can't coax that stubborn mule into doing anything he doesn't want to do.

So, why is it so fun to try and get a rise out of him?

As I'm in the crisper, laying the fruit inside the drawer, I notice that at some point last night, Edward got up and had a midnight snack. The tortillas I made two days ago cease to exist, along with the homemade refried beans. Good Lord, the guy can eat and he loves Mexican food. Not that I can blame him. I'm partial to it as well, which is why it tends to be a large portion of my menu items.

I stand up, close the fridge, and before I know it, I'm walking back to the hallway and glancing in at sleeping beauty. He's snoozing like the dead in there.

I smirk. Did I wear him out last night, working that cock of his?

_Quit thinking about that!_

I wander inside, run my fingertips lightly through his hair.

He's undisturbed by my touch and still sleeping soundly, so I lean over and place a delicate kiss on his forehead.

My heart swells, and the overwhelming desire to hug and kiss him, hits me so hard, I gasp and stand up straight.

Shit! What the hell is wrong with me?

I tiptoe back out of the room and shut the door.

I'm going stir-crazy. I'm trapped in this house with a man I'm insanely attracted to.

I close my eyes, slump up against the wall and seal up all these crazed, rampant thoughts of being with him like an actual lover—they're now in my mental vault, never to be reopened.

I sigh and open my eyes.

Things to do. Work.

I've probably got about an hour or two before he wakes up. So, I go about what I normally do when he's sleeping, when I'm not staring at him transfixed while he sleeps.

I head downstairs and hide supplies that were in the basement and move the ones that can handle heat, into the attic. The rest of the stuff that has to be in an air-conditioned environment, well, I find odd places to conceal them.

I shove a few cases of wheat and water in a corner in the blistering attic, and once I'm back inside the house, I breathe easier. I keep worrying the safety we think we have is all an illusion and at some point the mirage will dry up and dissipate, and we'll be left with nothing.

Next, I grab some bags of sugar and salt and lug them up the rope ladder Edward doesn't know about.

But then he doesn't know about a lot of the shit I do. Better that he's unaware, so if someone gets ahold of him . . . And if they torture him . . .

Goddammit! My throat constricts and my mouth goes dry.

The thought of Edward being tortured or suffering, makes my heart shrink about three sizes smaller, and I can barely breathe.

Tears sting in my eyes, and I refuse to let them surface.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath; seems like part of my daily routine now, to force myself to constantly stop and catch hold of myself.

_Stop being such a stupid bitch. He's just a man. Suck it up and do the things that need doing. There's no point to this endless worrying._

My hands wipe the sweat off my forehead, and I scuff my left foot on the ground.

How did I turn into such a pussy? Why am I so teary-eyed and emotional?

He's just a man, he's just a man, he's just a man . . .

_Yeah, a man you can't stop thinking about._

I growl and shove off the wall.

_Keep hiding supplies. If someone breaks in, they won't find it all, and if you manage to come back . . ._

My feet shuffle forward, and I get back to work.

After moving five more buckets of sugar, several canisters of salt and a few gallons of water, I close everything up.

My body aches, and he might wake soon, so I cover all my tracks quickly.

Don't need him catching me in the act.

My legs bounce with nervous energy once I finally sit my ass down. I rub my hands along my thighs, but they keep jerking around.

No matter how much I massage my legs, they won't stop, and I'm sure it's because my thoughts are so jumbled and conflicted about him.

I roll my eyes and groan.

Stupid body. I sigh, and my legs feel like there are tiny bugs marching up and down my veins.

I clench my fists, and it doesn't help. My hands shake worse than my legs.

Still feeling jittery, I grab the journal and pick up reading where I last left off.

Maybe reading will help.

I open the book, and once again, wonder if I'll ever figure out why it wasn't in the safe with all the other important documents and information. It seems odd this important book was amongst reading materials on how to use graywater and how to square foot garden in the desert.

The couch squeaks as I settle in.

_Knock, knock, knock, knock._

I jump up, remembering instantly I left the handgun down in the basement. But first . . . I close the iron window covering in the kitchen and run to the office to view the security monitors. My eyes go wide. What the hell? There are two women standing at the front door, knocking urgently. One is very pregnant, and the other one is kind of propping her up on her shoulder, keeping her from toppling over.

I scan the surrounding area to make sure they're alone. It appears it's only the two of them and they're on foot. There're no vehicles in the vicinity.

I run as fast as I can, find my gun and free the safety catch.

Who are these bitches, and why are they here?

"Huhhh, huhhh, huhhh," I breathe hard as I race quietly through the house, preparing myself mentally to shoot down these women if I need to.

A few beads of sweat roll down my temples, and I know the first thing I have to do is protect him . . .

_Knock, knock, knock, knock._

_Fucking idiots! Shut the hell up! You'll wake him!_

I curse a long stream of profanities under my breath and slide up to the door. My hands visibly shake while reaching for the locks.

"Shoot first, ask questions later," I tell myself.

I flip all the locks, and yank the door open so damn fast, they stagger backward when it's gaping at them.

My gun is instantly pointed at the non-pregnant, blonde woman's face.

"Oh my God," she says, dropping down to her knees and raising her hands in the air.

"Please, don't shoot us . . . We need help. I'm having contractions, and we don't have any water. I'm not due to have this baby for another two months, and we're terrified," the dark, petite lady says.

"Go find your own water," I say, ignoring that pit in my stomach, telling me I'll burn in the thirteenth circle of hell for turning away a helpless pregnant lady when I just hoarded and hauled water I had to spare, up into the attic because I'm paranoid.

Nausea hits me in waves, threatening to make my knees buckle.

I rest one palm on my stomach and keep the gun steady with the other.

The blonde gasps when I glare at her and lunge forward like I'm about to slap the shit out of her if she doesn't immediately answer my unasked question of why she's here.

"We've tried, but she's exhausted. She can't keep going from house to house. All of these homes around here are abandoned, and the livestock are all dead, too. Please . . . can't you give us a little water?" the blonde, impossibly stunning woman, asks as she braves looking me in the eye, even though my gun has remained pointed on her since I pulled open the door.

"What's it to me if you two die? I don't need you and your dead weight. Shouldn't have gotten pregnant when the world was in this kind of state. It's your own damn fault for being so foolish," I spit at them.

The pregnant woman starts to cry, really cry hard, and I about die a thousand deaths.

"Let's just go," she whimpers, cowering before me.

"We can't!" the blonde woman argues. "You need water, and she wouldn't still be alive if she didn't have any!"

Fuck! I take a step back and my stomach knots up.

This is horrendous! I'm a walking grim reaper, handing out death to whom I deem unworthy to continue breathing.

I'm disgusting. My head sags forward and my shoulders fall a little.

"Please . . . a little water and we'll go and never come back," the pregnant woman implores. Her hair is all choppy and spikes of a mass of black hair. Looks like she had a fight with the scissors and the blades won.

They're both clean enough though, so something feels off.

"A little water and then yeah, you fucking go and don't even look back. Don't you ever tell anybody I'm here, or you're dead! I don't exist. You hear me?" I order, my voice breaking as it escalates, and my resolve failing miserably as the blonde stands and her face is filled with so much gratitude my lips twitch in response.

My feet move back a pace once more.

"If you have anything with protein, could you spare that, too? She hasn't eaten all day, and it's probably why she's going into premature labor." The blonde blinks her eyes, and her smile deepens.

My eyes grow wide at their audacity. What the fuck is this? When did I turn into a homeless shelter?

"You've got some balls, lady," I force a slight smile. I can't help but respect her bravery, but who does she think she is, asking me for water and now food? The heat has definitely scorched her brain.

"I'm Rachel," the blonde says. "And she's Leah."

"Great, now we're having a girl's night out," I say, rolling my eyes. Why would they think I care about their fucking names? I'm never gonna see them again.

"Wait here. I'll be back in a minute with water," I say, starting to shut the door.

"And food for Leah," Rachel adds.

I swallow. "Yeah, hold your breath for that one. Maybe it'll force some oxygen back into your brain."

"We'll wait right inside the door," Rachel states.

I gape at her, hand on my hip, gun still aimed at her platinum blonde head.

"This isn't some damned hotel," I argue. She knows what a gun is, right?

"She's pregnant and this heat is unbearable," the blonde says.

"Yeah, it's called summer in Arizona, welcome to Chandler," I reply. "Move somewhere cooler—somewhere that doesn't involve you being a butthole at my door."

"That's what we're trying to do. We've been trying to find a vehicle that works with some gas in it. As soon as we do, we'll be out of here," Leah says.

I nod. Good! Then I won't have to see them groveling at my door again, making me go all soft and girly, giving away my supplies like I'm the local charity institution.

I can't afford to share any of our supplies. It could mean the difference between life and death a few months from now.

"Fine. Stay by the door, and if you move an inch, I won't hesitate to blow your damn heads off," I huff.

I step back, warring over turning my back to them or not.

Suddenly, I'm struck with an idea.

"Since you're in my home, and I don't know you from Adam, I'm gonna have to check you for weapons," I inform them.

They look at me like I've grown a second head, and then I realize they're not actually staring at me that way. Their eyes are focused over my shoulder, at Edward, stumbling into the room with a gun pointed at them.

"Put that thing down before you shoot _me_," I snarl at him.

He breathes hard and his face is flushed but there're still traces of sleep on his features. His disoriented look, gives him away.

"I mean it—fucking, put it down!" My eyes flick to his gun.

Not a sound escapes his lips. He puts it down and watches me while I pat them down all over their bodies, completely unhindered. I don't take this lightly. If they have a weapon on them, I'll find out.

Edward gasps when I grope the pregnant lady's tits, and I chuckle at his virgin reaction. Yeah, I touched the bitches breasts—women store weapons there all the time, and I'm not gonna avoid them because it's a little bit of an uncomfortable feeling.

When I'm done "sexually harassing them," or at least I can tell that's what they all think I've just done, I tell Edward to go grab two water bottles for them while I keep my gun trained on Rachel.

Leah is looking worse by the minute. She better not drop her brat out of her vagina onto my floor.

"Can she at least sit down for a moment?" Rachel asks me like I'm a harpy from hell.

"No."

She glares then turns to her pregnant friend. "We'll be out of here in a moment," Rachel tells Leah. "Just hold on for a few more minutes."

"Edward! What's taking so long?" I yell, wanting them out of my house right this minute.

The elfish, dark, round woman gasps at my hollering.

Oh fucking holy mother of hell!

I cringe and groan. _Good going! You've just revealed his identity! What the hell were you thinking?_

_Why not hand him over now, cuffed, so they can take his ass and leave? I thought you were protecting him or some shit?_

My eyes narrow into the slits of a coldblooded, calculating assassin.

I can do this. I can kill them now. I'll clean up the mess after I explain to Edward I had no choice . . . He'll understand, and if he doesn't, well, he'll get over it eventually.

_Yeah, after he leaves you behind, disgusted with you and hating every ounce of your repellent hide!_

My biceps coil and tighten and my finger inches down on the trigger.

"You will leave. You will never come back here. You will forget his name, and I'll let you live," I tell them, stepping menacingly closer, gun now pointed at Leah's distended belly.

Edward appears.

"Where you playing fucking Scrabble back there? I mean, fuck! What took so long?" I grit through my teeth at him. "Civilization is probably already rebuilt with how long it took."

"Well, I wanted to give them something to eat," Edward tells me as he races toward them with their water and some beef jerky.

"That's _our_ food," I growl.

"I'll skip dinner," he says, looking at me like he's mortified to be with me.

"Fine." A helpless feeling surrounds my heart, and my head aches.

This is my house! Mine! And I have no fucking control of it!

A low, vibrating growl builds up in my chest, and I snap my jaws shut to keep it contained inside me.

He hands it to them and they practically fall at his feet, worshiping him.

"Bless you, Edward, bless you. This is more than we could've ever hoped for. Your generosity is astounding," Leah says, her voice all feathery soft and airy.

I stare at him in disbelief as he lets them fawn over him and _touch_ him.

He gives them both hugs and opens the door slowly as he graciously tells them it was his pleasure to help out.

Why doesn't he pull out a bullhorn and announce we're opening our door for service?

"Shut the door!" I screech at him.

They leave, looking scared to death, and he waves quickly before shutting them out as if I'd never spoken. He locks the door in a casual way, like he has all the time at his disposal he needs.

I snort a huff and my hand goes on my hip. Bastard!

Why's he torturing me this way?

He rests his palm on the door, and from the side where I can see him, his cheek lifts. He's smiling?

Are you fucking kidding me?

This douche thinks this is funny? Or he feels good about what he just did?

Honestly, I should probably shoot him or myself right now, since it's clear we're going to wind up coming to blows over this.

His actions make no sense at all.

Okay, yeah, I kinda get it. A part of me wishes we could take them in too, but what sense would that make? _Our_ survival is what matters. They don't factor in.

I have to be logical about this. Feelings, compassion cannot interfere.

I wait for him to round on me, guns blazing with his verbal assault.

Instead, he slowly walks up to me like I've just been beaten to an inch of my life. His eyes are soft and his breathing shallow.

"Are you okay?" His hands run soothing strokes up and down my arms. My gun is almost pressing into his sternum.

I stare in wonder at this man. What the hell happened to the man that acts like he hates me and doesn't give a damn what I think?

My tongue weighs a metric ton and can't move.

I'm not okay, not even close, but how do I tell him I'm suffering without sounding like a cruel shithead when those two ladies are out on the broiling streets?

"It's not your fault . . . you did what you had to do," he says as he pulls me into his arms and kisses my shoulder, then my neck and my hair.

"Edward . . . stop," I whisper.

"I've got you. We're safe, and we're together. They won't hurt us. They won't tell anybody," he says, sounding confident.

He thinks I'm still focused on _them?_

I stop breathing and shove my gun in my pocket.

It's _him_ I'm worried about and how he's going to feel about _me_.

I grip his arms and look him in the eye, licking my dry lips and trying to gather some coherent thought so I can respond and tell him how my heart's shredding for him in this instant.

"Stop, just stop. I can't . . ." A fist clamps down on the pieces of tattered heart, scattered around my ribs—making me gasp on a choking sob. Why does this hurt so fucking bad?

"It's okay," he murmurs. "We're fine."

My body goes rigid, mirroring the stillness of my breath, and my eyes shift down.

"What? What's wrong?" he asks me, urgency in his voice.

"You're touching me. I'm done with that. No more of it. I don't want your hands on me, and I won't touch you either. Distance, Edward. Keep away from me," I threaten, eyes cold, small and unashamed. I am closed off again, or will be at any rate, when I figure out how to stop letting him affect me like this.

_You almost killed him today. Keep him away! Protect him!_

"No!" he gasps.

I turn away and lock myself down in the dungeon, my room where I rot and wait for judgment day to chase me down, chastise me and then deliver my punishment.

Until then . . . I'll protect him at all costs . . . Including from me.

Emotional involvement means being careless and sloppy. And I can't risk him. If anything happened to him . . . I can't even fathom a world where he doesn't exist. It's unthinkable. Utter insanity! I would cease to exist and have any purpose.

My back slides down the wall, and I sit hunched over, dead and hollow inside.

No more feelings. No more romantic thoughts. It's too dangerous. Risky.

No more time spent looking at him, dreaming of lavishing his skin with kisses.

"Bella, please . . ." he hollers as he knocks on my door. "What's going on? I thought we were past this!"

I sit, wait, allowing the guilt and heart wrenching to melt away as I zone out. I won't fall for him. I don't do that. It's not in my DNA, not in my plan. I blink and breathe. That's all I can do.

"Bella! Come on! You can't avoid me; we both live here. And I'm not going to stop touching you. You need it as much as I do," he continues to wail through the door. "You fucking need me!"

He's right and . . . I hate him for it!

My head jerks away from the door, and rotten, pissy-tears roll down my cheeks.

_I don't deserve you . . ._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Unauthorized Guests**

_EPOV_

_Bam, bam, bam, bam._

I pound the door over and over, but she ignores me.

Why is she doing this?

She's shutting down, and I don't know why.

We touched, we connected. And it was unearthly. I've never felt such an electric charge rush through me from a simple glance off my skin by another person. But that wasn't the only factor in sealing the deal. The way she looked straight into my soul; there was none of that bullshit. She truly saw me and understood who I am. None of this "chosen one" insanity. I was simply Edward; not running from God, not fleeing.

Can I somehow rip the door off the hinges?

"Bella! Will you just _talk_ to _me?_" I yell louder. "You've been down there for over an hour, and I know you're not sleeping no matter how silent you're being." I rest my forehead on the door and slap my palms on it, my head lolling from side to side. "I'm sorry if you're scared, but I don't regret what we did. I don't want you to either. Now, open this door before I start breaking it down!"

No movement. Nothing.

I back away, run my fingers over my scalp and wish I had the nerve to shoot this damn door down. She left her handgun up here.

I head over to it and my hand shakes as I grip it. I could end it all right now . . . I could _end_ me.

A rush sweeps through my chest. I can't do this—I have to be with her. I know it most assuredly, more than I know I'm cursed to be labeled and treated differently, even though I only want to simply be me.

Does she feel trapped, too?

I approach the door one last time.

"Okay . . . Bella. You win. I can't do this. I just . . . shit!" I shake my head. My body's already twisted into knots and violently retching inside. "I'm leaving. You don't want me here, and I can find shelter elsewhere. I won't ever reveal that you're here. And I'll . . . Christ . . . I'll never forget you or your kindness toward me. Take care; be happy. That's all I want for you, and I obviously make you extremely unhappy." My fingers lightly run down the door, and I whisper a final, "Goodbye, beautiful girl." _My Bella . . ._

A hard, cold lump forms in my stomach and travels up to my throat.

I turn away, trying desperately to be cold, uncaring. I know what I have to do. My brain shuts down, goes into autopilot, and I beg my heart to follow suit.

Still, shel doesn't stir. Bella doesn't care that I'm going.

I grab a water bottle out of the fridge, and the second I have that front door open, her door flies open and she rushes me.

She slams the front door closed and rounds on me. Eyes bloodshot and wildly urgent, she blocks my exit.

I hold my breath. She slowly, methodically locks the door back up.

"You're not going anywhere," she hisses in a crouched, almost predatory stance.

"Like hell I'm not. I can't live by the rules you've set. I'd rather die on the streets than stay here and upset you by touching you. I need it, more than I need your food. It's like a drug to me, and now you've forbid it. So, screw it. I can't stay." My head drops, but I look up at her through my twitching eyes. Feels like there are daggers at the backs of them, pricking and stinging.

"Don't go," she pleads, her voice pained and cracking.

"Why?" I stare and wait for her to completely break down in front of me. I can't be the only one who feels this. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't leave you."

"Because," her shoulders slump forward and her eyes lose that fire, morphing into a ghost of a soul, a scrap of what I know her to be, "I need you."

She inwardly collapses like a house of cards that have been slightly brushed in the wrong direction. Crippled and broken, she crashes into me. Tears stream down her perfect face, and she wraps her arms around me like I'm her lifeline.

Before I can figure out what's going on, her lips are on mine, pleading with me, searing my soul, branding it hers.

"Don't go . . . I can't lose you," she cries through her kisses along my neck, behind my ear. "I won't survive if you go."

"Shhhhh . . . I won't go. I'll never leave, but I have to be with you. I have to touch you. Can you see that?" I ask softly, trying to coax her to see my view.

"You can touch me," she concedes

The heat of her lips are on me, her breath fanning over my skin.

_Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock._

Somebody's at the door? What the hell?

We both freeze. Caught!

"Dammit," I hiss under my breath.

"Don't answer it," she whispers, eyes wide and her entire body tensed.

"It's probably those women again," I say, more to convince myself so I don't throw up from absolute fear.

"It's not," she says; the hairs on her arms stand on end.

Bella lets go of me, and it feels like the world will end all over again. My heart clenches, and the air is wrung out of me.

I reach for her; she ignores me.

She runs quietly to the office, and I follow. Her eyes dart around as she checks the camera's visual.

She gasps, and the minute I see her face . . . I know.

"He's back." My shoulders drop and my fingers go numb.

"Look," she says with a nod. "Somebody's with him."

My blood runs ice cold at the tone of her voice. Her body language speaks volumes about the amount of horror we're about to face.

What the fuck are we gonna do now?

I glance at her for some sort of direction. She stands stony and silent, her fists balled up and her eyes narrowed, vicious looking. Her biceps flex like steel. Hell, _I'm_ scared of her.

I slowly make my way to her side and gently touch her arm to help relax her before I take a look at the monitor.

"It's gonna be fine. We can handle this," I say.

"Really?" She points at the screen.

"What the hell?" I can't believe my defective eyes. This can't be right. "Who's she?"

"I don't know who _he_ is; you think I know who his little companion is?" After that smart ass comment, she leaves the room.

I follow after her once more, but this time it almost feels like she's towing me, the dead-weight that I am, since I have no idea what to do about this fucked up situation.

"Do you have the gun?" she asks, eyes flat and lifeless.

I can almost feel the killer instinct taking grip of the Bella I know, obliterating that caring woman completely.

My feet shift away for a second.

"Yes," I tell her, shaking inside. I snap my jaw shut.

"Don't hesitate to shoot them if they step a toe inside," she says, and her eyes go dark.

"I can't do that, she's just a—"

The door is swung open, and Bella's staring face-to-face with her former captor, but that's not as alarming as the little girl at his side who runs up to Bella and hugs her.

I drop the gun and Bella shrieks at me, "No! It's a trap!"

She pushes the girl unceremoniously off her and heads straight for the gun. Shit! I can't let her shoot a little kid!

But before I can do anything, Bella's got it up in the "innocent" girl's face, cocked and ready to go off.

"What. Do. You. Want?" she growls at them, the gun unwavering.

"Bella . . . you don't remember us?" the man asks, sounding hurt; voice gruff yet with an edge of tenderness to it.

It's clear he's choked up and really emotional over seeing her.

Seeing that look in his eyes, makes me feel as if a searing hot blade has sliced through my chest. My knees almost buckle on me.

Oh, God! Were they together?

He steps inside and shuts the door then locks it, as if he's without a care in the world.

Bella doesn't answer.

There's a shift in the air, and my stomach knots. The man's hands bunch into blanching fists. Things are about to get really ugly.

"I missed you," the little girl says, her voice breaking and her eyes filled with pain.

"I don't know you," Bella says through a clenched jaw.

"Yes, you do," he corrects her. "I'm your boyfriend, and Kate's my daughter. You and I have been together for a year, and we were in the process of moving in with you when you suddenly disappeared."

Bella's facial expression remains unchanged with the tiny exception of her nostrils flaring.

I, however, can't keep my lips from trembling, my breathing from being louder than the bombs that dropped weeks ago, and I'm sure it's obvious I'm involved with his woman. Or desperately want to be.

Bella keeps the gun pointed at them and motions them over to the couch.

"Keep talking," she demands coolly.

I keep my distance, staying in the periphery.

"You went out to the garden one morning after we . . . you know . . . and you didn't return. The back door was wide open, and I knew something was wrong. You always locked us in, overprotective as you are, and I grabbed Kate, we sealed up our home and went after you. It took us three weeks to find you, and bombs were falling like rain from the sky. It was difficult, but we found you. SALV had you. You were drugged up, and I had to fight to get out. They almost killed you rather than give you up. A big guy with dark hair bashed you in the back of the head with his rifle. He used it like a baseball bat, but I managed to wrangle his gun from him and just barely escaped before they sent their guards on us. They took your dog, Riley. They've probably killed him. I'm so sorry, Bella, I wanted to free him too, but I couldn't go back. We were lucky we got out alive."

Bella swallows hard, and I can see the emotions welling up in her eyes; they're soft and caring. For the first time since he's entered our space, she looks at me as if for support.

My fingers twitch, begging me to hold her, and I lean toward her, willing her to come to my side.

She stays in place but continues to stare at me, her lips parted like she wants to say something, but she remains mute.

A beat later, she presses her lips together and turns back to him. "Why did you bind me?"

Once more, Bella's captivated by him; I cease to exist.

A sharp pain slices down my gut. I cross my arms over my stomach to keep the contents inside it from spilling forth.

Out of nowhere, visions assault my mind of her with him, touching him, whispering in his ear and allowing his lips to touch her. She was in his bed. The thought is more than I can bear.

I turn away and hold my breath with my eyes closed.

She won't do that again. She won't go back to him.

When I turn back to them, her features are soft and she listens to him intently.

My heart splinters, and I choke back a throbbing growl burning at the back of my throat.

I glare at him. This isn't right!

There's no recoil, or abhorrence when she looks at him as he sits before her. It makes me nauseous to watch their nonverbal exchange, and his daughter beaming at them is like the proverbial cherry on top.

Why is she so accepting of them if she doesn't remember them? I received weeks of verbal acid from Bella before we got to this point.

I scuff the tip of my shoe along the ground and have to look away from them again before I pound his head into the thick walls.

She says something I didn't hear and he chuckles.

I've gotta get out of here. I start planning my escape but stop when he starts explaining how I'm involved.

"He's trouble. It was him I was trying to avoid when I brought you back here where I knew I could keep you safe. But you were so out of it and threatening to kill Kate and me that I had to tie you up. It killed me to do it, but you couldn't remember anything. I kept hoping that when the drugs wore off, you'd know us. But then _this_ guy showed up," he motions toward me, "and I thought he was one of them, trying to steal you back. I went to go shoot him, but he was gone when I exited the house. He kept hiding, evading me. And when I went to check on Kate, since I knew she was frightened, you escaped. If it hadn't been for him, we never would've been parted and you'd already know who I am. We looked for you again, but I had no idea where you were. I went back to SALV, only to find you weren't there. They almost caught me again, but I was too quick for them." His head bows, and I can see how tortured he was when she was gone.

Shit. He really does love her?

What the fuck am I supposed to do about this?

I roll my shoulders back and stare at him like I'm not afraid of him.

The truth is—he could end me—end this. He could take her away from me—the one woman that accepts me. My stomach drops when he smiles at her.

"Kate and I were spying on them, watching to see if maybe they had you secured in a different location, but there was no sign of you at all. It wasn't until I followed Rose and Alice that I found you had returned to our home, here." His face lights up with hope. "You found your way back to me."

"Who _areyou_ exactly?" I ask, my voice thick. I clear my throat, trying to sound casual, but my voice was already breaking, so it's too late. I already sound like a tool. I grimace and shove my hands in my pockets, unsure of what the hell else to do with myself.

If I'm not busting his nose, then what should I be doing?

Oh yeah, kicking his ass out, pulling Bella back into the bedroom and fucking her until she forgets his name again.

Good plan.

I pull my hands back out of my jeans and cup my left fist in my right palm.

He smirks. "I'm Garrett. Garrett Morris, Bella's better half," he says with a challenging smile. I have no idea if Bella notices or not, but I know that look says, "She's mine! Back off!" but I have no intention of doing that. I don't know the meaning of those words.

"What did you call those women?" Bella asks him, backtracking.

"Rose and Alice. The blonde's name is Rose, and the short, dark-haired one is Alice. They're married to the leader, Peter. He's their 'prophet.'"

"SALV? Is that code or something?" she asks, skipping past the part about two wives for their leader.

Does she not care that this whole thing sounds fucked up beyond this nightmare right in front of me?

Or is she too busy stalling so she can figure out how to get rid of him?

My eyes narrow at her while I study her expression.

As usual, it's unreadable.

I sigh in frustration. "It's short for Salvation Army," I tell her. "In the beginning of this cult's existence, the public thought they had branched off from them because they helped people in a similar way. They didn't correct the misunderstanding since it helped them to gain numbers. They're the bad guys, Bella. They're after me., and apparently they want you now, too."

Her eyes shimmer for a second, and I can almost see the thoughts drifting through her mind methodically, and sliding into place as if puzzle pieces, being placed to form a clear picture. What I wouldn't give to be able to read her mind and know exactly what she's thinking.

"They're not after _you_," Garrett snorts at me. "They want Bella, because she knows Jacob Black. They want _him,_ not _you_."

"Do you know where Jacob is?" Bella asks him, suddenly straightening up and focusing directly on him.

"No. Nobody knows where he is. He probably died in the blasts. Anyway, he doesn't matter. What matters is we're back together." He gives me a look like I'm an intruder with his smirk now gone, his lips having morphed into a nasty scowl.

I wait for Bella to ask him who Jacob is and what's so damn important about him. But she doesn't. Maybe she doesn't trust him to tell the truth?

"We don't have enough food that four people can live on for any solid length of time," Bella murmurs under her breath.

"That's because we planned for three, not four," Garrett says, eyes still digging at me.

I exhale and settle into place. "I was just about to leave when you interrupted," I state, reminding Bella with my tone of our little tender exchange right before he arrived.

"He's not going anywhere," she says, eyes sparking to life. "He stays."

"Why?" Garrett shifts in his seat.

"Because, I say. And I don't know you, so don't think you're going to pick up wherever it was you left off with me." Bella rests her hands on her knees. She looks like a magistrate, ruling the people around her with that firm set of her jaw and the way she's holding herself. It's got that _keep the fuck away from me and do as I say!_ vibe. "We'll have to get the chickens out of the middle bedroom, and I can bring the mattress up from downstairs for Kate to sleep on. You can sleep on the couch," she says.

At first I think I'm dreaming when she says it while she's staring at me. I want to protest, and then I realize that she's going to sleep in her bed . . . with _Garrett_.

A baseball bat pounding into my kneecaps over and over again right now would be less debilitating than the look she gives me.

"Fuuuuck!" I huff, and then I remember there's a child present. "Sorry."

"No problem," he says through a triumphant grin.

"We'll probably eventually need to raid some warehouses to get more supplies and food," she says, ignoring our pissing contest, staring at the wall past me.

"We can steal a bed for Kate from a neighbor's place," he adds. "I remember that junkie mattress you have. She's not sleeping on that."

My brows push together. Is he serious? What a snob! He's lucky she's allowing him to stay at all. The prick! Acting like he can pick and choose, like this is a goddamn five star hotel.

I stretch my neck and keep my eyes trained on him.

Garrett looks back at me expectantly, his fingers flexing on his legs above his knees.

"Edward, can you remove the chickens and put them back in their pen while we go make a run for what we need?" Bella moves directly in front of me.

"No. You know I can't do that," I tell her, my eyes stinging, threatening to tear up. _Don't cry. Don't do it! Don't you fucking dare give this douche the satisfaction._

My hands bunch into tight balls.

"Fine, you stay here with Kate. Garrett and I will go in search of the stuff we need. I'll deal with the chickens when I get back," Bella says and turns to Garrett. "Ready?"

He nods.

A second later she swivels back toward me, and I can barely look at her.

"Gun?" She asks me, her palm extended.

She wants me to turn it over to her?

Fuck no.

"It's mine now." I tip my chin over at him. "Take one of his." If this dick is gonna be around, then I sure as hell better have a gun on me at all times. I start going over in my head how I can learn to operate this weapon.

A murderous glare glints off her eyes, and right now, I don't fucking care.

"Is there a reason you're being a bigger dick than the mountains of dead bodies surrounding the city?" Her left eye twitches.

"You've got ten more like it in the dungeon," I answer. "Take one of those guns."

She rolls her eyes at me and huffs. A few stray hairs float off her face then settle back in place from her puff of exhaust.

"Yeah, ten more like it that are _mine_—and this one's included in that stash." Her eyes flick to the gun in my possession.

Whatever. I'm over their little love-fest reunion. I look away and lean up against the wall, looking past her shoulder. My eyes glaze over.

"That's right—be an asshole," she says. "It's helping your cause . . ."

She steps past me and moves with purpose.

Garrett starts to follow after her and her head snaps over her shoulder as she tells him, "Don't follow me. I don't know you."

I smile, gratified she's not going to give in easily. As far as she's concerned, he's the intruder, not me.

And she'll forgive me later for not giving up my gun. I'll make her laugh, eat dinner with her, follow her around and watch her do chores, then everything'll be back to normal.

Obnoxious as I am, I try to show him how at home I am. I traipse over to the fridge, open it and help myself to a sandwich. Bella pulled some bread out of the freezer yesterday so we could have some bread with our chili. I make a show of my delicious egg salad sandwich and eat it with gusto.

My teeth slice into the bread in an obscene manner.

He watches in horror as I down some Gatorade.

It's not until Kate sighs with a dying groan that I realize she's absolutely starving, and a sliver of guilt claws up my spine. I can barely swallow my bite down.

Dammit! Women and children get me every time.

I make her a sandwich identical to mine and motion for her to join me. She gives a squeal of excitement and graciously thanks me. I ignore her idiot dad, threatening to destroy my Heaven.

His fat boots clomp around, grating on my eardrums like a jackhammer on the asphalt.

Bastard.

Bella returns with two backpacks, guns and ammo.

"Do you know how to work this gun?" she asks him.

I watch them out of the corner of my eyes as I eat.

He looks at her incredulously. "I bought you this gun for your birthday, babe," he replies.

Suddenly, I have the urge to puke on his daughter's sandwich.

"Don't call me that," Bella says.

He flinches. "What should I call you? Mary? That's what SALV was calling you." He chuckles.

Vomit. I mean it. On her sandwich, then on his fucking shoes. He should stop now.

Suddenly, it hits me. "They know who you are," I tell Bella, almost choking on my current bite of sandwich in my mouth. "That's what I called you at first, remember? Somehow they found out." My eyes go wide and my cheeks go cold as the blood drains from my face.

What if they capture her? What if I lost her?

I swallow down what amounts to newspaper in place of a sandwich—it's lost all flavor and digestibility now that I can only imagine her being tortured to death.

I shove the remains of my sandwich aside.

"They do not," he responds. "They all go by Bible names. That's why Rose is Rachel and Alice is Leah. It's like their code names. They get a new name when they're inducted into the cult."

This guy has no idea what he's talking about. They know the prophecies inside and out. I have no doubt he's taking this too lightly.

I snort.

Bella approaches me, and for a minute I think she might actually kiss me goodbye. "You gonna be okay here without me?" she asks, and I'm humiliated into the ground. She's treating me like a baby.

I glance down at the ground.

"I'm good, yeah," I hiss through my teeth. "I'll be fine."

She touches my arm lightly. "Sorry about this," she says and then turns without another glance or word.

She leaves, and Garrett, the destroyer of happiness, stalks out after her.

They disappear into a Hummer parked in the driveway.

My neck stretches and strains to catch as much of them as I can before they're completely gone.

How did we not hear that beast of a vehicle approaching our home? Oh yeah . . . I was wrapped up in Bella's piercing kisses and her begging me not to go.

That seems like a light year away now . . . eons ago.

"Bye," I say, my voice bitter as I shut the door and lock up.

"Edward?" a meek little voice calls to me.

I turn and find Kate crying. "Do you hate us?"

_Oh God almighty!_

**A/N:**

**I know it's not the cheeriest of chapters for Easter, but I couldn't control that. Happy Easter to those of you that celebrate it!**

**Chanse**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Companion**

_BPOV_

"Gaaawd, it's soooo good to be with you again," Garrett says as he pulls me into a hug.

I push him away and then punch him in the jaw as hard as I can.

He flinches at impact, but doesn't fight back, nor does he get angry.

"I guess I deserve that. You never really were the soft and cuddly type," he says, smiling good-naturedly.

"Keep your hands off me, and I won't kill you," I snarl, ready to rip him two new holes if he comes more than five feet into my space.

"Why'd you take on that loser inside who thinks he's the promised one?" he asks.

I hold my breath for a second. He wants to die. Has too—he just called Edward a loser.

My eyes narrow. I can oblige. My fingers flit over the top of my gun.

"He _is_ the promised one. He's not totally convinced he is, but I have no doubt about it," I tell him.

"You can't honestly believe that." He stops and stares at me like I'm certifiable.

"He fits all the criteria, and I can feel it deep inside, in my gut, in my bones," I say. I turn to leave.

He grabs my arm. My head snaps over my shoulder, and I glare, halting all movements. He lets go of me when my eyes move to his hand.

"Don't tell me . . . he thinks you're his prophesied 'protector.' Do you buy that shit as well, along with his boathouse on the Nile?" he asks, an arrogant grin exploding on his smug face.

I turn around. "Yeah, he believes that. I don't though. Either way, it doesn't matter. People are after him, and they're not going to get him." My jaw clenches. Are we here to shoot the breeze? I thought we were on a mission. Sitting here chatting makes us vulnerable. I only go out in the open for a specific reason. "Open this car door. Now." My right leg bounces with nervous energy.

He lets me in, careful to keep his distance. Thank God, because if he tries anything else I might have to strand him out in the desert somewhere and lie to his daughter, telling her the coyotes took him away.

He slips into the driver side and starts the car. We drive off, and my grinding teeth are almost louder than the vibrating engine of the vehicle.

"Okay, so, you don't believe that part of the prophecy, yet you're fulfilling it by protecting him in your home," he points out.

Shut the fuck up!

My eyes go wide and fill with the red heat of murder. I cock my head at him.

Death wish count down starts now.

Three . . . Two . . .

He chuckles.

I turn away and drum my fingers on my gun. It would be entirely too easy to kill him, and I don't wanna take care of that little girl indefinitely. I'll have to figure out a way to scare him off.

"Just because I give him some food and somewhere to crash temporarily doesn't mean I'm protecting him," I lie.

"Yet, you told me not more than thirty seconds ago you weren't going to let them have him. That's protection; guarding him. What's gotten into you? Did you sleep with him or something?"

"No, and even if I did, it's none of your business," I mutter, staring out the side window.

"Like hell it isn't. Look, I know you can't remember any of this, but we were talking about getting married before you were stolen away from me. That was a little over a month ago. Nothing's changed. I still want you to be mine. Kate needs you, I need you. That jackass, back there," he points behind us as we're driving further away, "doesn't need you. He might think he does, but it's a lie. He's conjured up this fantasy in his head, and he's sucking you in. You're not a part of his sick little world. Many people have gone mad from the aftershocks of the bombs," he explains

"I'm done talking about this." He can go to hell with the rest of the crazies he seems to know so much about.

"Fine by me. It's growing old discussing this anyway. He'll be gone soon enough when he sees he's in the way of our happiness," he says.

He pulls up to a house a block away from mine.

"Why are you stopping here?"

"Because this house looks like it hasn't been damaged as much as the others. Let's see if there's a decent mattress in here." He unbuckles, slides out and waits for me to join him.

He locks the vehicle up and walks quickly up to the house.

This is so dangerous—being so open about what we're doing. Scavenging is the best way to get picked off.

My senses are hyperactive, scanning the terrain for anything that might be amiss.

He kicks the door in. It makes a loud, crashing noise and we swiftly move through the house. Miraculously it looks like this house has been left alone. It doesn't reek of rotten corpses either.

"Jackpot," he breathes, smiling in a self-congratulating way.

I roll my eyes.

He runs his hand over a double sized bed that looks in perfect condition.

We rip the bedding off, I grab it and the four pillows we find and run them out to the car. He opens the car up, and I shove them inside.

We run back inside and go for the mattress. He keeps dropping it every five minutes, pissing me off until I'm ready to scream at him and rip his head off.

Edward wouldn't keep slipping like this. He would listen to me when I tell him to get a move on and haul ass.

What's Garrett's problem. He's a big guy. Why can't he carry a simple fucking mattress?

"Would you stop dropping it?" I bark.

"I'm not doing it on purpose. My hands are sweating so it's slipping," he replies.

"Figure out how to keep it in your hands. We need to get moving. Somebody could find us here and we'll be dead," I say.

"You're so paranoid. Nobody lives out here. The survivors are all in the city with Legion." He acts like I'm stupid for not knowing this.

A few moments later, we heave the mattress up on top, and he pulls out some rope he has stored in the vehicle. We tie it down as fast as we can. His fingers shake, and he's sloppy with the rope as well.

Every fucking thing he does makes my teeth gnash. What an idiot. How has he survived this long?

As soon as we're done we get back in the car and leave in a hurry. I can barely look at this moron.

He keeps staring at me—I can feel his eyes on me.

I finally turn to him. "How do you know so much about Legion?" Is he with them?

"Everybody knows. But I saw stuff in the cities when I was trying to find you. It was horrific. People were being shot, hung for food and supplies and weapons. It's mass chaos. I've never been so scared in my entire life. Kate was too, so we had to turn back around and keep away from there. Luckily, SALV had you, and they stay out of Legion's territory," he says ominously. I can hear the fear in his voice, saturating his nerves.

"It sounds like some type of turf war's going on between the two sects," I respond.

"I guess. I stayed out of it. I wanted nothing to do with either one of them. There was no way I was going to let Kate become a part of their vicious ways."

My heart goes out to him a little bit. I can begin to imagine how scared he was, trying to protect her and find me at the same time. It's amazing that he was able to escape with their lives in tact and not wounded at all. Especially now that I see what a doofus he is in regards to keeping a low profile out in public.

I swallow. "Thank you for finding me and getting me out," I say quietly.

"You're welcome. We weren't about to let them turn you into one of their mindless hoard." He takes my hand, and I hiss in disapproval.

"I don't like being touched," I say, yanking my hand out of his grip.

"Jesus, SALV must have really done a number on you. You didn't used to be this uptight." His hand goes back on the wheel, and his spine stiffens.

"I don't know what they did, but just stop it."

"Why, what's the problem?" He turns a corner, and we're both so rigid, we barely tilt with the car.

"It makes me feel like I'm suffocating," I say and the hackles on the back of my neck prickle.

"Suffocating . . . ? That's a new one. Usually you have nightmares about being buried alive, falling off a cliff or being stabbed. Never suffocating," he says.

Out of nowhere, a memory takes hold of me.

"_Jake, wake up!" I whisper in the dark._

_I shove him and try desperately to make him move, but he's passed out, drunk._

_There's a faint sound of crunching leaves outside. It's slightly masked by crickets chirping. We're in his tiny bedroom in his house in La Push._

_Inaudible whispers filter through the window. _

Oh God, it sounds like there are several of them!

_Desperate, I start looking for his gun. Where is it?_

Be quiet, Bella. They'll hear you and kill you! Keep it together!

_We're alone. Billy's gone for the weekend. And we got drunk. We made out and almost had sex, but then Jake passed out on me._

Where is the fucking, shitty gun?

_A slight creak of floorboards in the living room._

_Minor shuffling of feet._

_My insides clench, and I drop to the floor then freeze._

_They'll probably shoot us. If I surrender maybe they'll let me live._

Pompous Jake and his stupid-ass gang! I knew he'd get us killed!

_The doorknob jiggles slightly, and then the door is slammed open._

"_What the . . . ?" Jake sits up disoriented._

_A gun is shoved in his mouth._

"_No! Jake, no!" I scream in terror._

"_Shut up, you hideous fucking cow!" a man in a ski mask yells as he looms over me while I cower on the floor and _shriiip!

"_Aaaaahhhhhh!" shriek; blood is spurting out of my shoulder. He pulls on the bloody knife, backing it out as he shoves his boot into my gut for counter pressure._

_Jake kicks his assailant in the ribs, grabs their gun and yowls, "You bastard, you're going to pay for that!" _

_Jake shoots until all of the men in the room drop like flies._

_Three more guys who were in the living room, rush in. Jake's out of bullets. He jumps up clad in only his boxer briefs, starts swinging away, and they drag Jake into the other room. He's too outnumbered._

"_Jake! Jake!" I scream in terror._

_I hear blows and punches and furniture being tossed around._

_With my heart hammering in my head, I scramble around looking for his gun again. I can't find it._

_Two guys race in the room and bind me in their arms._

_I'm lifted off the ground, kicking and flailing; they take off running with me._

"_No! Bella! Fight them like I taught you, fight them!" Jake screeches._

_But it's too late. I'm shoved in a car, and my hands are being duct taped behind my back._

_The tears are pouring out of me as I whimper._

"_Please, don't do this," I beg. "You don't have to. You can just leave me in the woods, and I promise I won't tell anybody what you did."_

_They fail to at all._

"_Or leave me on the side of the road," I plead as I twist and turn my wrists, trying desperately to break free. "Drop me off right here. Please, I'm just a kid. I'm only fifteen! My dad's the police chief."_

_They sit in place like I haven't said a word._

_They abruptly stop on the side of the road in a precarious spot, and terror rips up my spine. I'm going to be let go, but no! God no! Please, don't let them!_

_I'm screaming, thrashing and they take me like a sack of potatoes, one at my shoulders, the other at my feet, and they swing me back toward the car and then when momentum pulls me the other direction I am let loose, flying through the air._

_Falling . . . _

_Falling . . ._

_Falling . . . _

_The cliff disappears above me._

_I will die. I am dead._

"Nooooo!" I scream and claw into anything I can sink my nails into.

"Bella, stop!" Garrett yells and grips my arm, jostling me back and forth.

"Don't touch me!" I howl, swiping at him.

"You're not being suffocated!" he hollers.

I'm covered in sweat, shaking. My eyes adjust to the daylight, and I'm strapped in with the seatbelt.

"What happened?" he asks when my breathing starts to regulate.

"A memory," I say, my voice cold and distant as I curl in on myself and massage my shoulder. It prickles.

He rubs his hand on his pants one at a time like they're sweaty.

"Garrett . . . ?" I ask hesitantly.

He's silent, but listening.

"Do I have a knife scar on my left shoulder? I can't remember . . . if I do . . ." I trail off.

"Yeah," he says in a hushed tone, "you got it when you were fifteen."

"I thought so." It _wasn't_ a dream.

The knife was real.

Which means being thrown off a cliff was too.

And Jacob was the reason . . . I know that asshole intimately.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Nemesis**

_EPOV_

Great. I made a kid cry. If that doesn't disqualify me as "Savior," then I don't know what does.

Do I hate Kate?

I grimace. What kind of question is that?

"Kind of," I say softly. "I can't really hate you, but I don't especially want your dad here." It's honest at least.

Kate sniffs and takes a small nip at her sandwich.

"You don't even know us," she hesitates then continues, "but _we_ knew Bella first. She's like my mom. And she loves us."

That gnawing conscience of mine almost makes my chest explode, there's so much pressure. If I could run right about now I would.

"Look, I'm sure we can figure out a way to live in peace together."

"Maybe you should leave," she suggests.

My eyebrow cocks at her Really? She thinks she can tell me to go? We're alone. I could easily harm her physically. "How old are you?"

"Ten. But I'm old enough to see what's happening," she says, smirking and bobbing about in her chair as if she's dancing. "You're in love with her."

I grin back. Perceptive little thing. "Wanna help me catch some chickens?" I deflect before she starts delving deeper.

"No. I hate chickens. They scratch and peck at me. I used to hate it when I had to gather the eggs. They scare me." She takes a more generous bite of her sandwich.

"Me too. They're the devil in feathers," I tease and nudge her.

She smiles at me but doesn't laugh.

"It's going to be _your_ bedroom." I motion with my head toward the hallway. "If you want to have some privacy then you need to help me. Otherwise, I'm not lifting a finger. Bella's afraid of chickens, too. Do you want her to have to do it? She's already putting you and your old man up and feeding you. Do you want to be that ungrateful?"

"Can I at least finish my lunch first?" she asks with a knowing smile.

"You're not easily fooled, are you?" I stare at her.

"No. And neither is my dad. That's why Bella loves him so much."

Good God. She's like a nagging mother—laying the guilt on thicker than the toppings in her sandwich.

"She's glad we're here. She's just afraid to show it in front of you," she adds.

I turn my head away from her so she can't see the hurt in my eyes. I'd much rather she call me an idiot, a colossal failure, than tell me that Bella loves her dad.

"I'll be in my room. Holler when you're ready to deal with our winged friends." I leave her at the counter with her sandwich in hand.

I plop down on the bed and pull out one of Bella's books. My neck makes a popping noise when I stretch it to the side; so stiff. I wish I had my pornos, then I could truly relax. God, what I really wish is last night had never ended. My lips still tingle from Bella's searing kiss less than an hour ago. And her hands, and tongue on me . . . Christ! I would move heaven and earth to feel that again from her.

I get up, irritated and restless and pace the length of the room. There has to be some nudey pictures somewhere in this damn place. Quietly, I rummage around in Bella's bedroom closet and stop breathing as my lips jerk up at the corners! Fuck yeah—found it! A small stash of porn magazines hidden up on the top shelf above the mens clothing.

I bring it back to the bed and lie down for a nice relaxing "read."

Privacy would be nice so I could relieve some tension and painstakingly go through the memory of her lips taking me in and making love to me.

I snuggle into the mattress and breathe deep. My fingers flex, aching to take my cock in hand, but there's a pain-in-the-ass in the form of a ten-year-old know-it-all little girl, hanging out in the other room.

She's annoying me already, and I barely know her.

Thirty minutes later I hear a voice, calling out from the doorway. "You shouldn't be looking at that stuff."

I snort. "Thanks, short stuff, I'll remember that when I give a damn." She's lucky I wasn't yanking it.

"My dad doesn't look at pornography," she says, her chin tipped up.

"That you know of," I quip back.

"He doesn't. He says it destroys souls, and it's more addictive than drugs and alcohol."

I bark a laugh. At least she's good for laughs. "Well, when your dad starts giving lectures on how to cope with addictive sexual behaviors, let me know and I'll sign up. I'll make sure to sit in the front row and take copious notes."

"Whatever. Let's move those stupid birds." She rolls her eyes.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed like they're filled with lead and a burden to move. When I groan, she stares at me like I'm stupid.

"A sense of humor is required to live in this house," I deadpan and tuck my chin down while looking up at her through the tops of my lashes.

Nothing.

I wave my hand in the air. "Fine. But, just so you know, the favorite food of those chickens is little girls who are missing the funny bone. That way they don't choke on that tricky bone."

"The funny bone has nothing to do with you being funny."

I angle my head back and my eyes go wide as I mock a gasp. "It doesn't?"

"Ed-ward . . ." she drones. "You're not funny, and I'd bet before the bombs fell, you were even less able to make kids laugh."

Now _I'm_ laughing. "How'd you get so smart?"

"Hanging out with Bella and my dad." She smirks.

Okay, smacking a kid in the head—now that would be funny if it's Kate.

I huff. "Let's get this over with." I rub my face, not looking forward to what awaits me.

When I tip my head in the direction we need to head, she groans.

"Sometime today?" Her whiny little voice is the new post-apocalyptic version of nails on the chalkboard.

"I'm coming!" I say. "Keep your soiled diaper on."

"I'm telling my dad you said that." She uses her best tattling voice.

Even more impressive than that all consuming cringe I used to get from nails on the chalkboard. Girl's got skills.

"Promise?" I ask, chuckling. "I'll take notes on what he says on that as well."

She sets her hands on her hips and her mouth pinches.

I move past her and manage to find the pillowcases we used before for these idiot birds.

She makes no effort to be involved or help.

I hand one to her and take the other, holding it tight in my hand.

"Ready?" I ask, sounding tired and drained.

"Yeah. Are you? You look like you're hung over." Her eyes move over me with a tight, disapproving look.

Can I at least flip her off now? I bite my lip and the urge to tell her she's in the running for "Bitty Bitches Who Survived the Blasts." I think she'd win with or without the high heels and hair bows.

I blink hard. "I wish I was hung over. There's no booze in this entire place." I have no idea how I'm going to deal with Garrett, the new boyfriend tonight without a stiff drink in hand, especially if this little snot is following me around, rubbing it in every thirty seconds.

"That's because my dad doesn't drink. Bella was trying to follow his wishes. Plus, since I'm here, she doesn't want alcohol around a minor."

Does this walking mouth with legs ever shut up? And why does she sound like a professor teaching an English course to people from another country?

"Wow, I can't wait to watch him walk on water for his encore." I this little girl honestly think he's infallible? Did he turn her formula in her bottle into wine when she was an infant?

I open the door and we both squeeze through before we have any escaped convicts. Lucky for her, I also manage to do it before I tell her the truth—that her father's a dickhead, and she's the spawn of mutated genes. It's the only plausible explanation for both of them.

Within minutes, she swoops up a chicken as I chase one around, looking like an utter tool. How did she catch that thing so quick?

Kate laughs at me and snickers over how many times I yelp when they peck at my hands and how many times I miss them.

"I'll kill you, you stupid-ass bird!" I snatch and miss again.

"_Ummm_, I'm really telling now. You cussed," she singsongs.

"I'm going to hell anyway, because according to you, your dad is the Messiah returned."I wish! Then he could be trapped in this life I so desperately want to avoid.

After several swipes and misses, I finally round up five chickens. She has seven; we swap bags so she can have the lighter one.

We tie the ends off so they can't get out.

I make sure my gun is on me and we slip out the back door and quickly relocate these little beasts back into their pen.

"I hate chickens," she mumbles under her breath. "They're so foul."

I snicker. Does she even realize she made a pun?

"Yeah, they are pretty fowl," I agree, still laughing to myself.

She stops and cranes her head at me over her shoulder, giving me that little-miss-attitude-look again.

Whatever. It was funny even if she doesn't realize it. I wipe the grin off my face, we lock them in their cage, and I internally continue to muse over how I wish I were putting her in this pen instead of the birds. Now, _that_ would be hilarious, and I could use a big laugh. Maybe they could roost in her hair.

I shake off the morbid thoughts and return inside with her. Bella will be home soon then I can get this little girl out of my face, and I can get back to the porn I found. Something to look forward to.

I secure the door, and we head to the room covered in bird feces.

Nice.

"Ugh! What a mess! I'm not sleeping in here." She grimaces, her tongue poking out a little.

"Their cage outside is cleaner—feel free to join them," I say.

She narrows her eyes at me.

"My dad needs me near."

Oooh, I even get the hand-on-hip from her. She really paid close attention at the bitch-boot-camp her daddy sent her to.

I smirk. "The backyard is near."

"No, Edward. Stop acting like that's okay for me to do."

"You're no fun, you know that?" She frowns and taps her right foot at me, so I say, "Take the couch then." I eye her like she's a moron. She's snubbing a room with a door. Now that I have a porno I wouldn't mind taking over this room. The door's got a lock, too. I can ignore the smell.

She continues to glare at me.

Should I tell her the couch's comfortable and free? Nah. She won't take my offer. It would be entirely too nice of her.

Besides, I intend to take the basement. No way am I crashing on the couch where I can possibly hear Bella and Garrett doing sexual things in her room. I need to be as far away from it as I can. I'd rather choke on a chicken leg than sit through that torture.

I cringe at the thought of his hands on my woman, and my heart squeezes painfully. _Please, don't let him touch you, Bella . . . _

"So that's a no then?"Her nostrils flare. "C'mon, it's not that hard to clean up," I tell her, since I do it every day. "I'll show you."

"But it smells awful!" she whines.

"Once it's cleaned up, we'll light some candles. It'll take a little time to air out, but it should be fine." I wait for an answer, tapping my toe at her now.

"Fine! What do we have to do?" she asks, shoulders sagging in defeat like I've asked her to sleep on top of a bed with spikes sticking up out of it.

"I'll get some rags and some cleaner." I head off, hoping she'll quit the holier-than-thou attitude. She has no idea I grew up with much worse than what she's shoving my way.

When I return with cleanser, she's got the metal plate rolled back on the window so we have more light to work with.

We pass the bottle back and forth, spraying, scrubbing and working the place back to livable conditions. Working in silence suits me fine. She's had nothing to say so far I wanna hear.

An hour later, sore knees, and kinked back, we're done.

I go in search of a few candles, set them in some glasses and place them in the corner. It only takes a few minutes for the flames to absorb some of the odor.

Kate looks wiped out, ready to fall asleep.

"Why don't you go shower and then you can take a nap on my bed if you want," I tell her, not ready to give up the notion that it's _my bed_ yet. Until Bella states it's not mine, I'm holding onto that fucker.

"Okay," she says, shrugging.

She opens my closet, and apparently there are a few of her clothes hanging in there I never noticed. They're tucked at the back behind the mens wardrobe.

My heart slowly sinks as I watch her go about her business; she's clearly used to being in this home. Reality's knocking me on my ass. I can barely breathe over the thought of Garrett returning soon with Bella and taking over as alpha-male.

_Are those his clothes?_ I grimace at the thought and nausea hits me.

She moves off to the guest bathroom and locks herself in.

I grab my porno and head down to the basement. The room's over-saturated in Bella's intoxicating scent. As if I didn't have enough issues to deal with, the little demon starts pounding on the shower wall while the water's running.

I clomp back upstairs and bang back just as loud on the bathroom door. "What do you need?" I holler.

"Does this shampoo work? 'Cause it's not bubbling up."

I laugh inwardly. Awesome! I don't know when she did it, but Bella took the regular shampoo out of there and replaced it with the homemade stuff made out of the soap berries.

"Yeah, it works. Trust me. It'll get you clean enough." I turn with the broadest smile I've ever had and go back to my moments of reprieve before Garrett comes back and invades our space.

Finally, some payback for the hell she's put me through this morning.

I fall asleep with pictures of tits in my face, my dick in my hand after I've satisfied it, and Bella's scent on my skin as I take over her mattress.

The thought drifts in my mind that I didn't lock the door, but I ignore it, not giving a damn if something happens to me. Let _them_ take me . . . let them show Bella that she cares about me more than she knows.

.

.

.

"Stop dropping it!" I hear Bella yelling from the hallway.

"I'm not!" the booming male voice echoes back.

"I swear to God, if you let go one more time . . ."

"Just get it into the room," he tells her, and then I hear some grunting, scuffles and a thud of what sounds like a heavy mattress in the former chicken room.

"Don't touch me," she hisses at him, and I smile in delirium.

_Give him hell, baby! Kick him in his soap berry nuts._

"Well, we could use some help," Garrett says as they move it around some more. "Then I could keep my distance a little better."

I refuse to help them. My back pushes into the cushion.

Several more choice refusals fly out of Bella, and I can't help but glow inside over how she's not allowing him any wiggle-room at all.

_Bang, bang, bang, bang._

Somebody knocks in rapid succession at my door.

"Dinner in twenty minutes," Bella calls out.

She sounds completely pissed.

This time it has nothing to do with me, and this fact alone is gratifying. It's the only thing that gives me enough mental energy to traverse my way up those stairs and into the kitchen.

I find her making some kind of stir-fry. My stomach growls and churns, begging for some of her food.

My resolve tightens as I hear Garrett engaged in Kate's room, trying to square things away for her. Good—they can stay in there—out of my way.

My footfalls are the quietest they've ever been. I feel like I'm on a high wire, precariously balancing myself around her every move. A slight misstep can send me crashing down to my untimely death.

"Look at her," Garrett breathes behind me, startling me. "She walks like a man. It drives me nuts. Not very feminine." He tips his chin up at her and his eyes are filled with resentment.

I squint, trying in vain to see what the hell he's talking about.

We spy on Bella for a few more minutes as she eases her way around the kitchen.

I growl, "I love the way she moves, it's sensual as hell." I study each step, each leg lift. It's unique; so confident. There's a natural swivel to her hips that's not overstated. She lifts slightly, her hip shifts and sways like she's almost pivoting, plants her foot and settles her weight. It's a full-bodied figure eight. And damn, her backside flexes when she does it. Makes me get a semi when I watch her raw movements this closely. There's no pretense, no questioning. It's undeniably hot; I get the urge to touch myself from her simple stance and movements. "She looks like a predator, ready to fuck the first available man around. Good thing I'm fast."

I stride right out there, but he follows, nipping at my heels.

"You're kidding, right? She walks like John fuckin' Wayne with the saddle stuck up her ass," he says in disgust.

I flip him off and he leaves me so he can go do God knows what. Maybe shine his saddle he thinks he's going to cram up her crack? The prick.

Too bad I'll already have it filled with my cock.

I grin at her.

She's oblivious to my presence, or ignores me. Not sure which, and not sure I care. I plan to have her tonight, since now I know he's not really interested in her.

How can he be if he says shit like that about her?

I stop for a moment so I can appreciate her from where I am and continue to watch her from the shadows. She's so sexy, I have to reach down and maneuver my cock. A low flare has seated itself in my pants and my blood thrums in my body so hot and pulsing, I have to concentrate on taking slow, deep breaths.

That body moves so gracefully, so freely, I imagine wrapping her around my body, feeling those hips swivel and figure eight into me. Unable to resist anymore, I creep up on Bella and wrap my arms around her waist, settling my chin on the back of her shoulder. I'm sure she feels my erection on the small of her back.

"Smells good," I murmur and take a deep inhale of her scent.

"Thank you."

"I'm talking about you." I wiggle my chin.

"Stop it," she says, smacking the top of my head. "And behave. We're no longer alone in this place."

"Don't fucking remind me." I tighten my arms around her.

She sways back and forth like she's dancing with me.

I chuckle. God, the way my heart pounds for her and fills up when she allows me these small, fleeting moments—it means so much to me, it's pathetic.

"I don't need to. They're here, and we'll be seeing them all the time."

"Can you just kick me in my soap berry sack instead of saying this shit? Be less painful," I tease.

"They're soap nuts—you know that," she says, tapping my hands around her so I'll release her.

Hell no. I need this. "You're soaping my nuts, woman, making them slippery because you smell so fucking good. Seriously—how do you smell better than the food?" I nuzzle my nose in her hair.

She pulls away. "Clearly you're having some flashbacks to your preteen years, but I've got stuff to do, so unless you're here to help you need to get out of my way." She gives me a smile like maybe later we can do this.

My lower lip juts out. "C'mon, Bella. I'm already going through withdrawals of what it was like with just the two of us here. At least make out with me while the rice cooks. I'll let you see how slippery my soap berry sack is. I'm sure I'm leaking for you as usual." I waggle my brows at her.

"Shut. Up." She laughs and smacks me in the chest. "Set the table, you dopey bastard before I have to really hurt you."

"There are some kinds of pain that are pleasurable, and I'm up for exploring those with you."

She gives me a look like I'm beyond insane and begging to be shot.

"Okay, okay, moving out of your way, 'Miss-Responsible, not gonna check out your soap berry sack, even if it does smell really good.'" I grin and point at my groin. "I swear I showered while you were gone," I lie.

"I don't give a damn if you shaved down there, skippy—it's time to eat, and I'm not about to waste food so you can pretend like your dick's the biggest around."

"_Pretend_?" I feign shock. "I know it's bigger than that asshole's." I shove my thumb over my shoulder.

"Oh, you've already whipped them out and measured them, huh? Too bad I missed that." She snickers.

"Look, Bella, I—"

"I'm tired—can we do this later? I only want to fill my stomach, sit my ass down for ten minutes and then I can deal with this. Okay?"

"Okay," I say through clenched teeth. "Later, we'll let you measure, since you're an impartial judge and you smell so good and all."

A low, deep rumble emanates out of her and she cranes her neck over her shoulder and gives me the bridled version of her anger. She doesn't hit me, so this is a step in a very positive direction. I probably could pull my dick out right now and survive.

I move back behind her, press my body into hers and stroke her ass. What the hell . . . If I'm gonna die, it'll be with her cheeks in my greedy, idiotic hands.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asks, eyebrow quirked, eyes slit so small that all I can see is black pupil.

"Touching you, and I think I'm gonna do it more often—I really like it."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"I do, actually—you've got a great ass—built for my hands to grope. Try and stop me," I say then bite my bottom lip through a grin.

"You don't expect me to touch you back with him here, do you?" Her eyes drift down my body.

"You can do whatever you want, as long as I can do whatever feels right to me." Well, fuck, I'm hard enough I can probably dig a hole through her clothes.

She keeps stirring the food, and I swear I see the hint of a smirk at the corners of her lips.

"Better enjoy it now; they'll be in here soon . . ."

"I'm not stopping just 'cause some prick and his munchkin think it's inappropriate." I lean in and kiss her shoulder.

She stiffens but doesn't stop me.

"But you _will_ stop when I say enough."

I nod. "I suppose."

"If you don't, you'll be grounded—no dinner and straight to bed."

I moan and inhale at her neck then mutter, "Fuck, woman, I'm ready to skip dinner and head right to bed now. Let's go." I tug at her belt loops on her jeans.

"Your mom clearly shoulda had you in one of those helmets as a toddler because she dropped you on your head one too many times."

I laugh. "Sex. Now. Bed's calling."

"Food. Now. I'm eating."

"Yes, eating will be involved. I taste good, I promise."

"No."

"Yes." I knead into her butt cheeks.

"I know when some girls say no, it means, try harder—seduce me." She turns around and my hips push into her. "When this bitch says no, it means you'll be leaving as a eunuch. I don't fucking say anything I don't mean. Now, get off me, you horny fucker before I lose patience."

I kiss the corner of her lips. "Hey . . ." I stare in her eyes. "I was only messin' with ya. I would never force anything on you."

"Psht! As if you could."

I cup her cheeks. "I could, but I wouldn't ever do that. I respect you, Bella. All of you, and if you ever decide you want to be with me in an intimate way, well . . . I, fuck—I'd love that. You know that, right?"

She goes really rigid, her feet shift under her. A small nod, and then she wiggles out of my hold.

She exhales. "He's sleeping in my room tonight."

Shit if that's not a swift kick to the soapy berry sack. I almost double over, my erection faded completely.

"I know. I figured that was the case. That's probably why I've been acting like a needy chick." I tip my head back and slam my eyes shut, rolling my head back and forth as I squeeze my shoulders. I've gotta be the biggest loser ever. What was I thinking flirting shamelessly like that with her? "But you won't . . . let him touch you . . . while he's here, will you?" I ask, terrified of the answer.

When I let my head fall forward and look at her, she's impassive.

"No. What did I tell you?"

"You have to need something to do that," I regurgitate. Those lines are tattooed in my memory. _Need something from _me_, please!_

"That's right. You have nothing to worry about. He's not my boyfriend; he's somebody I'm helping out because he has a child. If Kate wasn't here I wouldn't let him stay." She rubs her cheek on her shoulder, right where I was breathing on it moments ago and then she goes back to cooking.

"Ahem!" a husky throat clears behind me.

I ignore it. The dick can kiss my ass, but definitely not Bella's. If he touches her or tries anything with her, I'll have him out the door so quick he won't know how he got on the doorstep.

"Dinner's almost done," Bella barks at him without so much as nodding in his direction.

My chest warms at how curt she is with him and how I was touching her, playing around, and for a while, she was lighthearted back.

"Bella . . ." His voice is low, hurt and shocked. He glares at me.

"You heard me. Dinner's almost done. Set the table," she commands.

"Fine!" he says, sweeping into the room like a hurricane, knocking into stuff and making a lot of whooshing noises through his nostrils with his obnoxious breath.

I try not to gloat, but it's hard when he was rubbing his status in my face before they left together. I was in turmoil when they'd been gone, unaware if what he was saying or doing with her while she was gone.

I stay near, watching him and not bothering to help. He should be familiar with that—since it's what he taught his daughter to do.

Before I know it, Bella's seated at the table and ignoring both of the men that are hot for her, and vying for her attention.

"Kate!" Garrett yells. "Dinner!"

Kate comes running, looking more like a normal child now. Having her own room has softened her features considerably.

My chest loosens up. I'm glad I didn't take it from her or try to convince her to claim a different spot for herself.

In fact, I can almost imagine myself not wanting to tape her mouth shut now that she's content.

Without a word, Garrett starts blessing the food. Bella ignores it and starts eating. I follow her lead and watch in amusement as he and Kate hold hands like zealots while they thank God for finding Bella, for her love, kindness and devotion to their family and for being reunited.

I almost gag on my chicken when he gushes about how the Lord has been generous to him and blessed him with the intellect to find her.

_Intellect?_ Is that what he calls it? I always thought tying someone up against their will, having them escape and then come back to scare their captor off was called justice. What the hell do I know? I snort.

He goes on and on about how the Lord's mindful of their little family and will never keep them apart again since he found her on his own.

He knows the Lord's mind, does he? I shake my head.

And he didn't find her on his own. He seems to keep conveniently forgetting that I'm the one that came back here with Bella, helped her get back into her own house.

What a smug asshat.

His prayer finally dies down, and I've already downed half my food. If I'd been thinking about it, I could've stolen some food off his plate while his eyes were closed during the prayer.

Dinner passes with small talk over what a great cook Bella is and how happy they are to be gathered around the table like a family. I stay silent so I don't shove my fork between his eyes. He's such a disgusting suck-up.

I know Bella can see right through it. Yeah, it's good to be nice to the person that feeds you, but c'mon! There's a point when his nose is too brown and shoved too high up her crack for anyone to be comfortable. Nobody likes a nose wedgie.

"Will you help me clean up?" Bella asks me.

My heart rate speeds up when I realize she's picking me over him. She doesn't want to be around Garrett if she can help it?

"Sure, no problem." I start gathering dishes and Garrett's brow furrows as he scowls at me.

"Anything you want _me_ to do?" Garrett asks.

Kate leaves to return to her room. I hear her scuffling around in there, and then her door shuts smoothly.

"Yeah, stay away from me," Bella tells him, her eyes lifeless.

"I'll be in our bedroom then," Garrett replies. "And I'll sleep on the right side like I always have."

She stands in place, still aloof.

Once he's gone, she resumes breathing.

I lightly drape my arm over her shoulders. "You okay?" I ask her.

Outward signs say she's not affected at all, but her eyes tell a different story.

"No. I'm not okay. He's driving me nuts. He thinks I love him, and I don't feel a thing for him. How long am I supposed to pretend to care about him?" she asks, turning to me. "What the hell am I supposed to do about this?"

"You don't have to pretend anything. This is your home, you have all of the power and all of the say." Can I kiss her now?

She squares her shoulders, looking at me as if she'd like to touch me, but she doesn't.

"I know. I can't turn him out though." She starts packing away the small amount of leftovers, and then scrubs the pot a little more forcefully than is needed.

"We'll figure this out." I lean my hip into her and use a reassuring voice, pretending like I'm not worried, even though inside I'm petrified of the ramifications of having him here.

She grunts. It's over. She's done talking—she's done this to me before. It's her signal she's effectively shutting down.

We work side by side, small touches, brushes of flesh, but no words to clear the rest of the air.

If she sees I'm here for her, supportive, maybe she'll decide she doesn't have to sleep in the same bed as him tonight. Maybe she'll see she and I can be together, and Garrett's just the unwanted house-guest.

Once we're done, reality sets in. I'm on guard duty; time for her to sleep.

"Goodnight," she says, all pale and quiet.

"Night, Bella." I hunch over slightly, wishing I could grab her into my arms and run with her. There has to be a place where we're safe. This was our Eden, but the snake has entered in and he has his spawn with him.

I watch in horror as she opens the door to her room to retire for the night. My heart ricochets around in my chest, creating gaping wounds wherever it hits a rib or artery.

I can barely breathe and my eyes stay fastened on that door in disbelief.

She went in. She's in there. With. _Him_.

_Dammit! This is not happening!_

I turn and somehow move into the office, slam myself down into the chair and start messing with her computer to keep my mind busy. What I wouldn't do to have some headphones and music right about now and a whiskey bottle full of the promise of oblivion.

I pull up her email and start perusing old saved files.

There's one titled "Friends/family." I open it.

The very first one catches and holds my attention.

It's labeled from JacobBlack19 .

Subject line: Finding the chosen one.

Holy shit! My eyes go wide, and I lean forward.

I open it and close my eyes for a moment before I delve into what secrets it reveals.

"Tell me what you know, Mr. Black."

**A/N:**

**I apologize for the long wait. I got caught up in other writing projects, but I should be able to get back to posting on this story and my other open fan fic, A Clean Slate. You may have noticed as well I changed the name of this story. Sorry if it confused you when you got this update… Since I've been rewriting it, the name Time of Salt didn't work for me anymore. I always toyed with the name Omega of Black, so I went with my gut.**

**Chanse**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Night: the Deep and Dark**

_BPOV_

I toss and turn, thinking only of Edward as I lie next to Garrett.

I shouldn't be here, but I want to feel something, _anything_. I want to feel normal again and trigger memories of life before my capture. It seems the best way to do that is surround myself with people from my past, and right now Garrett and Kate are it.

But how am I supposed to do this long term when I can't stand Garrett?

My teeth grind as I look over at him, sleeping.

Is there a reason he even wanted me back here?

When I entered the room, he was already asleep.

I inhale deeply. Smells mostly of Edward in my room.

I stare at the back of Garrett's head, wondering why the hell I followed him in here if he wasn't going to give me any answers.

How can I get rid of him without compromising Kate's safety?

I glance around the room, my mind racing on how I can maybe help them set up house nearby, but far enough away he's not in my face.

Just as I'm considering which supplies I'd be willing to part with, he turns over, faces toward me. He's not asleep, but his eyes are closed.

"Are you going to talk to me, or what?" I ask.

"No. I'm tired. Go to sleep." His eyes move under his lids.

"I'm assuming you were an even bigger asshole before the bombs, and you've mellowed some," I say, shoving him further away from me. "And that you've decided it's better to be obnoxious about taking my things, rather than asking. Part of your charm—clearly."

"Shut up, Bella. You're not funny, and I told you I'm ready to crash." He scratches his chin, then goes back to trying to sleep.

Who is this man?

Wish I could remember?

Is he a spy of some sort?

I huff and wiggle my feet.

"Out with it . . . Since you're making me crazy. Why are you being like this?" His eyes open, and I almost cringe at the color. I want the natural, beautiful green that usually unhinges me, yet grounds me simultaneously. "I know what you're thinking."

"You're wrong." _You're the wrong man in my bed . . ._

"I'm not wrong. I know you better than you know yourself." He yawns and stretches a little, his tone bored and irritated.

"You may have known me at one point, but you don't _know _me anymore, cowboy. Things are different now," I say, referring to Edward. "I don't even know myself, so how could you possibly?"

"He's confused you. You're still suffering from amnesia, but eventually it will all come back. Here . . ." He worms his way closer to me and kisses me.

It's gentle and makes my gut twist up in revulsion.

And I feel . . . _nothing_ . . . Nothing that resembles chemistry or desire for him.

For a brief moment, I consider kissing him back and maybe doing more so the memories will return.

But then I think of green eyes looking at me disappointed, maybe even angry, and I can't do it. I push Garrett back.

"You never did like sex much," he tells me with a quiet chuckle.

"Maybe that's because it was with _you._" I roll my eyes.

"Ouch! Bella . . . It has nothing to do with me. It was all you," he says, voice gruff. He kicks the sheets off his legs. "Frigid and all about business." He turns away from me. "You're not blaming this on me. You're the one with issues in the bedroom—not me."

"Yeah . . ." I breathe. "Yeah, I'm sure it was entirely on my end." I stare at the wall.

Within minutes, he's snoring, and I'm frustrated as I try to remember. Nothing surfaces. Why am I trying to sleep next to a stranger?

There's no way I'll be able to relax. He could pull a knife on me. At least with Edward, we've been together long enough for me to know he won't steal supplies, try to kill me or leave.

Garrett's top leg slowly drifts over to my side and entwines with mine. I cover my eyes with my arm and allow his leg to touch me, hoping it will spark some reminiscent, familiar activity.

Something has gotta bring a small sliver of who I used to be.

Nothing!

God, why can't I remember this man? It feels like a huge part of the puzzle I'm trying to assemble and I'm blindfolded.

And why do I keep feeling like I'm being tricked?

Disgruntled and aggravated, I start to move away from him when the hairs on my arms are inexplicably standing on end.

I'm being watched.

My arm slightly moves up off my eyes. When my eyesight adjusts to the low level light, no one's around and the only sound is Garrett's putrid breath in the air.

I move slowly to avoid waking the dead-weight idiot next to me. The last thing I need is for him to wake up and talk to me. Funny how it's the reason I came in here, and now I don't want to hear anything else he has to say. I don't think I want to remember my past if it involves being in love with this dickhead.

While I sit on the edge of the bed, I rub my eyes and contemplate how I wound up in bed with him. What was I thinking?Stupidest thing I've done in this whole screwed up situation.

Lost track of what was important.

Dragging my tired body out of the room, I click the door closed without a sound. I need to smell Edward.

I need to know he's still here and still on my side.

With cat-like movements, I plunge into the house's darkness and wind my way down to the basement. I can't bring myself to face Edward just so I can get my fix. I know he'll be short with me and have something to say about my attempting to sleep next to Garrett.

The vision of Edward's stiff, unforgiving body makes me cringe.

Even more restless, I wander my way outside, into the garden in the back.

Maybe if I take a moment to clear my head things will make more sense.

I'll have a plan of how to handle these two men in my house.

I just wanna be alone. No expectations, no disappointment.

No one pulling me in another direction.

As I sit, wondering what to do about Garrett, I stare at the stars. Out of nowhere, a myriad of emotions swell in my breast, and I am overcome by them.

"God, please hear me. I need Edward. I can't live without him. I know this now. If you take him away from me, it will be the end of me. Please, let me keep him. I can help him and help you." My voice has never sounded this soft, this filled with desperation. "Just . . . don't allow him to get hurt. He has to be safe. And I hate that Garrett being here hurts him. What do I do?" The pangs of my heart are unbearable; like a pussy, I grip my shirt, directly over my heart. "Can't you send Garrett and Kate somewhere else where they'll be safe and cared for? Their presence isn't good. Anything that hurts Edward is wrong, but I'm not mean enough to send a child away, and she needs her father. Crap! What. Would. You. Have. Me. Do?" I punctuate each tortured word as I rip up handfuls of grass with my hand that's not over my heart, trapping the beating organ inside my body. I am definitely out of my ever-loving mind! I'm praying to a God I don't even know if I believe in. But what else do I have? Who else to turn to?

All I know is the way Edward looks at me. When he talks to me I feel good inside. Something clicks into place, and I can't fight him forever. I can't help caring about him. He understands me in a way I don't think Garrett ever will. He accepts me for who I am.

_Tell me, God, how do I stay away from Edward and not get involved? It seems impossible. How do I stop thinking about him, and wanting to be around him all of the time?_

No answer comes. No stroke of inspired genius, no heavenly messenger, no burning bush. _Thanks for nothing, God. You're no help. _I stare into the sky, glaring at the cosmos.

_God never helped you before, why would he now?_

Even more flustered, I get up and recognize I'm being careless. I left the back door unlocked as I sit out in the open without so much as a gun in my hand.

_Stupid, Bella. You're losing it. No wonder God won't help you!_

I drag myself back inside, lock up and creep back down to the dungeon; find my way to my bed. I sigh, and everything aches in a weird way I can't even describe.

As I lie down on the mattress I'm assaulted with Edward's unmistakable, intoxicating scent. Was he just down here? It almost feels warm . . .

Jesus, I'm out of it. He was napping down here when I was making dinner. Why can't I remember stuff like this?

I turn tummy down and nuzzle my nose into the mattress. Within moments I'm enveloped in a feeling of safety and in a solid, deep asleep.

"You. Are _mine,_" I hear a man say with a soft, deep breathy moan. It wakes me up.

I keep my eyes closed so I still have the element of surprise if I need to attack the perp.

Only, it didn't sound threatening, what this man said, the _way_ he said it—sounded sensual, seductive.

I'm dreaming of Edward again. Must be. He's invaded my head, gotten under my skin and now I'm hallucinating him into my space.

"I want you," I say to thin air. "Why is it so wrong?" My hushed whispers are returned with more imaginary, raspy, distinct sounds from Edward.

"It's not wrong," he whispers back and then touches. Oh _yes_, soft, gratifying touches.

My hair is stroked, and I purr into the cool night air.

"So beautiful," he says.

"You . . . you touch me. You move me." My scalp tingles at this imaginary touch. "_Edward _. . ."

Nobody touches me. I don't like it. But I like this touch _. . . Keep doing it, please!_

And then a pleasure fills me as a heady weight shifts down over me. I'm lying on my stomach, but the feel of being pressed deeply into the mattress makes my whole body sing, and my bones melt further into the cushion. "Oh gaaaawwwd!" I moan.

"_Mine ._ . . my skin. My dark hair. Mine to touch, to feel . . ." His voice barely makes it into my mind, and then I realize—I actually heard that. It brushed over my ear. I freeze. This feels awfully real. And then . . . "To _love._" A wet tongue flicks out, wetting my ear.

I wiggle my way around so I'm facing him.

"Edward . . ." I choke, he's on top of me. This _is_ real.

The full length of his body is lined against mine.

_God, please forgive me. I have to . . . _

He kisses me, and I open my mouth to him, allowing him in. A feverish desire rips through me, and my hands shake as I grip his shoulders fiercely, pulling his weight more fully into me. My breathing deepens, and I'm frantic for more. My knees bend deeply, and my feet push against the mat. I want to push straight up into him, fuse our pelvises together.

_No, you want to be fucked!_

My pussy clenches, and my breath catches.

"Kiss me," I breathe. _More, more mouth, more tongue. I need more of you, Edward!_

"Love _me_," he murmurs, his hands bracing my hips, "and forget about that dick upstairs."

I'm not sure if it's a plea or a declaration of what he's going to do.

A fiery jolt of heat slips up my sides as he grips me there, his hands slowly inching up my body toward my breasts. The urgency in his mouth makes my heart pound harder than ever. It takes away my free will. I succumb completely. I'm a panting mess, a mushroom cloud of feelings. I've exploded inside, no longer a thinking sentient being. I'm all wired and reactive to his touch. And the harder he breathes, the more my fingers dig into him.

He kisses me above my right breast, and I moan so loud, I'm certain Garrett's gonna hear us. He touches me, and my back arches my chest into him. A slight breath on my skin, and my blood pounds riotously through me with the force of an A bomb.

"You . . . do this to me . . . I can't think," I confess as if he's my Maker. He is the God of my soul, since he owns it. He touched me. He gave me a heart, gave my form breath when I was dead.

"Bella . . . _my _Bella. Don't ever sleep with him again," he says through his gritted teeth.

Before I can counter his false accusation, his mouth seals over mine, and I give in to every dip, each roll of his exquisite, chiseled hard body.

I'm afraid to touch him now though; afraid he'll disappear, so my hands fall away. He's too good to be true. I have to be dreaming.

I search him for answers with each kiss; some confirmation this is okay, and God won't strike me down for doing this.

And as his breath pelts my skin, as his fingers finally, _finally_, touch my tits, I have my answers.

This is my purpose: to touch him, to hold him, to take him in.

_Lord, I see it now. He's mine, I am his. Bless us. Keep us together_, I pray internally.

My hips twitch and then start to move. I grind into him. He's not moving. He's still. His breathing has stopped.

And then . . .

_Snap . . . Zipppppp!_

His jeans start to come down.

_Ohhhhh . . . please, I need . . .you._

He dismantles his clothes by ripping off his shirt, tearing his jeans the rest of the way off.

_Yes, Edward . . . yes!_

His trembling hands pull at my clothes. They're panicked when it takes too long. I lift myself up to accommodate his movements. _Touch me. Hold me. _I don't know what to do, so I simply feel each tiny movement. Absorb each pant on my skin.

"Yessss . . . that's it, Bella." His hard on rubs all over my legs as he keeps going. "All mine." My breathing is insanely loud, and my body is covered in gooseflesh. How is he doing this to me?

This all feels so new.

A chill runs through me, and a warm flush creeps up my thighs.

"Touch me, again . . . Please." My lips hover close to his chest, and my hands grip his hips to brace myself. I can do this. I can touch him. He won't despise the things I do, will he? He won't care I'm inept and suck at pleasuring a man.

He nudges my legs further apart with his own, and then I see the silhouette of his hand rub over his scalp as he kneels up.

"You're so far away," I whimper as my hands claw in the air, reaching for him, and clamor for skin.

"You can't do this to me again. I _can't _stay away from you. Be in my bed, in my . . ." He halts his words and then pleasure, intense heat hits me as he touches me in ways that never felt this good before.

He groans, and I about die from the delicious sound he makes. It rumbles out of his chest in a long drawn out feral rip.

His eyes are heavy, full of desire, and he stares at me like he'll die if I turn him away. "I love you . . . Mine. Not his. _My_ Bella . . . Feel me. Take my heart, it's only for you . . . Feel me, oh please, feel _me_." It's a desperate prayer, a plea to God, a plea to _me_.

I know this because I'm saying the exact same things inside.

My heart jolts with each word, and each touch.

"I . . . _Yessss_, nnnnngh," I groan and try to get closer. "I'll do anything—anything for you; I belong to _you_." I have never felt so possessed. I'm a burning mass of sensations.

"No one can take this away from me. No one can take _you_ away from _me_. We're bound together—heart, soul, and now . . . body. I want to fill you. Will you take me?" His voice shakes.

My insides reflect it back as my abs quiver.

"Yes, Edward . . . Anything." I spread myself open as much as I can.

His body lowers, his head dips and he takes control of my mouth.

"You can give me more," I beg between kisses.

"I can't. I'll lose it," he whimpers, "and you _will_ enjoy this; love every minute of it. I'll make sure you do, or I'll kick my own ass for being a selfish prick."

"I already love it; all of it . . . I need _more._" I don't know exactly what I need, but I can't get close enough.

"You _will_ come for me," he commands my body. Is he remembering our conversation weeks ago when I told him no man had ever pleasured me and no man could? Is he determined to change it for me? Deep in my aching body, begging for him, I know he can. He can change all that for me, and I so desperately want him to, I can barely breathe.

And so far he's succeeding, because I'm about to explode. I feel on fire as my skin prickles and tingles deliciously.

"Ohhhh, so perfect. All of you. We're made to fit together, I feel it. Yeah, I feel it," he says, voice reverent. "Thank you, thank you."

This glorious specimen of God on earth is thanking _who?_ The good Lord? Me? Surely not _me?_ I have no choice but to love him and do anything he wants.

He gives a long shaky vibrating moan, and then he grabs my hands from his hips and interlaces our fingers. With soft, but firm lips, he presses his mouth into both of my hands in turn as he stares into my eyes. It feels incredibly intimate, so connected. Such a small thing makes me feel loved, so important, like it's not just about his pleasure. My God, he's . . . does he really love me? I doubt anybody's ever really loved me before besides my parents. The realization makes my heart clench. He makes me feel soooo good.

_Oh, Edward . . . I think I'm gonna . . . Can my body do that? I didn't think it was capable of doing that. But I want to . . . for you. You are so unselfish, so caring. I don't deserve this . . . You are too good to me. And I'm a mess, so mean to you. But, fuck . . . I want you so much! I can't let you go!_

All these thoughts swirl in my head as my tongue goes impotent and refuses to voice any of it.

I lick my lips and prop myself up a little, not sure if it's okay or not, but I kiss him. He growls and gives me a soul crushing kiss back.

He grunts as I stroke his tongue with mine, and I really, really want him to love this too. I can't handle it—it's too much. I'm overwhelmed by all of it. I know I'll fail. And I don't like to fail.

_Edward, you have to finish. I can't stand the shame when you find out I'm broken, my body doesn't work like it should. Please, finish! I can't do what you want me to do. _

How can I make him come? It doesn't feel right. I want to change this, have it be about him, not me. I don't deserve ecstasy. Euphoria is not mine to have and own. I have Edward . . . and that's more than I deserve. The angels and all of Heaven and Earth will come down on me, destroy me if I come undone and let my body touch the unearthly.

I don't know how to make him feel as good as he's making me feel. It's his first time, and it should be special.

My stomach twists as I think about how it should be Earth shattering for him, but instead the world's gone to shit, and he's stuck with me. Fuck! No! He deserves better.

_Please, God, tell me what to do. How do I touch him? How do I make his body sing?_

Nothing comes to me, so I follow Edward's lead.

If he kisses me, I kiss him back. If his hands roam over my tits, I caress his chest.

When he cups my ass, I grip his.

After a while he guides my hands, making me touch him all over. Should I be turned on from touching him this way? Is it okay? I don't know if I should, but I am. Is this how a normal woman would react?

Tingles and warmth spread through my body, like a relaxing, yet stimulating bath with each sweep of his hands over me.

I'm water beneath him, nothing but a puddle, melting into him. It's crazy how soft and open I am, but at the same time, I also want to . . . I want to bite into him . . . _hard_!

Vicious instincts surge through me when he lets go of my hands and pushes his into my hair, cradling my head while caressing. I want to take, to consume, to _own_. My hands want to dig fiercely into his skin and make him scream in a powerful surge of painful pleasure. I want Garrett and everyone else in the country to hear it, so they know he's mine and he's allowing me to touch him.

What is wrong with me? He's being tender, loving, and I want to be coarse and hard with him.

Is it my immaturity with matters of the heart and inexperience with intimacy seeping through? I hate that I don't know what I'm doing and all I know is violence.

I cringe at myself. My hands recoiling so I don't hurt him.

I bite my lip, dig in deep to keep my will in check.

"Put your hands back on me, Bella, fuck! I need to feel you on my skin," he says.

My fingers shake as I extend my hands and gently run them up and down the length of his back where I remember his tattoo being. Ironic that a wild, scary beast on his back is being gently touched by an unfeminine woman, so backward in every sense she doesn't even know how to kiss a man correctly and make his body hum with pleasure.

Sooooo smooth and soft, yet, so hard and firm. His skin twitches and ripples under my touch. The contrast in each contour and groove of muscle is mesmerizing. I bite back a moan when the desire hits me to lick his tattoo like a wild beast and really plow my tongue into him.

_Slow . . . sweet. Don't scare him away or try to hurt him. _

Tightening, tingling and all primal lust, I groan heavy, my breasts full and achy. "Uuuunnnnhhhh, Edward . . . please!" It helps to be verbal. It takes the edge away, gets rid of some of my pent up aggressive tendencies that are threatening to break free.

So, why is so fucking hard to say anything at all?

_More . . . more!_

He pulls his hands out of my hair, takes my left fingers up to his mouth and sucks them in one at a time.

"You taste like the divine. I taste Heaven." He plunges my index finger in his mouth and caresses his tongue along the underside of my pad.

His hands, mouth and body do amazing things to me, and I'm so close to finally breaking apart where completion will be mine.

"Ed-ward!" I choke on this one word. I can't breathe! I can't think!

My fingers fall out of his mouth as the suction goes lax. He collapses on top of me. His fingers still pull and hook into me.

He gasps, "Bella . . . I need you! I need you so much! All mine! Thank you for letting go. You were getting all tense. I was worried I was hurting you." He pulls me tightly into his chest, his hands wound like vices around my torso as he showers me with kisses and soft endearments. "You can't take her from me!" He sniffs, inhaling deeply like he's in the middle of a vicious battle. "I won't hurt her, and you can't have her." He's staring up at the ceiling as if someone's there.

Is he talking to Garrett? Oh shit. Is he speaking to God? It sure as fuck sounds like it. My heart races at the sound of anger, shredding its way out of his throat as he brays about how no one can have me but him.

With his next breath, he's inside me, thrusting deep and slow.

"Oh, Christ! I . . . I had no idea . . ." His soft mewling sounds have me falling apart inside.

How can he feel this good, and sound like I'm the one killing him with too much sensation?

I tip my hips up, and he tucks his hands under my ass, and pushes as deep as he can go.

"Shit! I'm inside you—I'm right fucking here, and you feel it, too. I know you do. I know you're feeling this—the way we fit. It's right." He sucks in a sweeping breath, nuzzles into my neck and kisses along my pulse point as he keeps fucking me.

"I do feel it," I say, clutching onto his back.

His pumping hips speed up, and within a few plunges, he's grunting at the peak of each one. "So fucking good. Can't take it—how tight and fucking warm you are."

"Keep going." I pant harder than he does. My pussy is nothing but a ball of nerves, clenching down each time he's sliding back in.

"Wetter than I could've possibly imagined. That's for me—you know it is, don't you?"

I nod.

"Can I . . . Can I get you there? Jesus—fucking tell me I'm close to getting you there," he whimpers.

"You are—very close," I say, my voice a high pitched whine.

My back arches when he sucks a nipple into his mouth. One of his fingers—and I have no idea which one since I can do nothing but tip my head back to try and catch some godforsaken air—strokes my clit furiously.

"I won't stop. I won't do it until you get there," he promises.

"Oh God!" I rip at his hair, yanking on it as this heavy throb in my pelvis explodes out of me, and I'm breathless, and I'm weak, and my bones must be flying out of me, because I am weightless and nothing exists but the sound and smell of him, above me.

"Fuck! Belllllla!" He moans so low and so deep, it's the dirtiest thing I've ever heard, and I'm convulsing beneath him.

And fuck it all, he is, too—shaking harder than I am above me.

His voice makes this high pitched scratchy noise with each breath, and I've never seen anything sexier than him tossing everything aside all to be with me this way. To bring me ecstasy.

My hands roam all over his body with a sense of greediness.

I explore his chest, and my heart hammers as my body goes a little sluggish.

Knowing all of him is my only desire now. To know I haven't missed anything.

So, I kiss him, I groan as his tongue caresses mine in my mouth.

And I fall apart even more when all he can say over and over in a breathy, light wisp of air into my mouth and neck is, "Oh God, Bella. Oh God . . . _Bella_."

I wrap around him so fully that we're completely one. Each breath calms a little more, and my heart settles as I feel his thrumming against my own.

I feel possessive, too, so I understand why he sounds this way—why before he fucked me, he sounded mad at God. But he's wrong. The world wants _him_, not me. I'm meaningless. They can't have him. Right now, he. Is. Mine. I'll never let him go!

"I've never felt this before," I whisper into the silence after our bodies have calmed. "Ever . . ." All of this_._ So foreign; especially the feeling of never-ending desire. I cup his face and wish I had more light to gaze into his clear, vivid green eyes. "Edward . . . that was . . ."

"Shhhhh . . ." He holds me. We are one, and I obey him. All of him. Including his silent demands as he holds me and keeps kissing me until we're both out of breath and so tired, we just mold into each other.

**A/N:**

**I have an announcement on a very controversial subject. I will be pulling down Omega of Black to publish it in January of 2013, so this will be the last chapter I update on fan fic. Here are some things you need to know: You have until the end of the month to copy, make pdf's, whatever you like of the portion of the story I have up here. Share it, spread it, flagfic it; I have no problem at all with that. I never really planned to pull to publish any of my stories, but since I've been rewriting this story, fixing issues from the original, I figured it was time to share it with more people since there are so few scifi, post-apocalyptic eroticas out in the market. I think this is a very unique story, with some new twists I plan to add in. I'll be publishing it through Mayhem Erotica Publishing.**

**Will the published version be the same as the fic? No. Some elements will remain, but it will be changed, and all traces of Twilight will be removed. The ending will most likely be a bit different, and some of the characters might even be removed. There isn't much Twilight related to begin with as far as I'm concerned since these characters are very OOC. I will be reworking it into a better version, and it won't be quite as lengthy as the original was. Will you be changing the title? Yes. Still working on that, so I can't share what that will be yet. Will you be pulling your other fics and will you stop writing fanfic? No. At this time I have no further plans to pull any of my other stories down with the intent to publish them, and I'll keep writing fan fic since it's my stress release. I love that I can share stories here that I might not feel I want to publish. I love fanfic. I love the freedom it provides. The rest of my WIP's will continue. I'm sure I will also continue to be assaulted by plot bunnies. Thank you for your understanding. I appreciate everyone's support.**

**Chanse**


End file.
